LITMIR.BIZ

      The opera singer known as La Belle Seraphina moved slightly in her chair and set her elbows tight together on the tiny café table, presenting Rhys with an even more spectacular view of her cleavage, its creamy shadows enhanced by a hint of lace in their depths.

      He shifted in his seat, time enough to admire those very generous assets after he had discussed the possibility of her appearing at the London Opera House next season. His cousin Gregory had an interest in the place and Rhys had promised to keep his eye open for promising singers. After their negotiations, perhaps he would open discussions about a transaction of an altogether different kind. She certainly appeared to be sending out signals that such a suggestion might be welcome.

      And a night spent in mutual pleasure would be more than welcome to him, Rhys acknowledged, wondering what was making him so damned randy. Anyone would think he had parted from his mistress a month ago, not just over a week. He moved again, restless, his body’s automatic urging at odds with a surprisingly fastidious unwillingness to come to the point and make the proposition that he was certain the woman at his side was expecting.

      Across the clipped box hedges and shorn grass of the central strip of garden, a small party arrived at the café opposite. A veiled woman seated herself in a flurry of peacock-blue skirts. Very nice, he thought absently, noting the trim figure and the grace with which she sat down between her companions, a plainly dressed maid and a man in sombre black.

      ‘Hodge?’

      ‘Monseigneur?’ the woman at his side purred as she laid a hand on his forearm, the lush curve of her breast pressed against him in a blatant attempt to regain his attention.

      ‘I beg your… Excusez-moi.’ Rhys scrambled after his French. He might, strangely, be finding her uninteresting, but that was no excuse for bad manners. ‘I just saw someone I know.’ His valet, Thea’s maid and…the elegant figure, her face hidden under a veil of figured lace that just reached her top lip in a way that was pure provocation…that must be Thea. Thea?

      ‘I thought I saw someone I knew.’ Rhys forced himself to think coherently in French again as he settled back in his chair, contriving to turn it slightly as he did so to bring the other table fully into his line of sight.

      What the blazes was Hodge thinking of, to bring Thea here of all places? It was innocuous enough during the day, except for the effect on the wallet of the numerous tiny shops selling exquisite trinkets, jewellery and objets de vertu, but at night it was a playground. And not for infants, Rhys fumed inwardly.

      The place was a very grown-up playground indeed, an ant heap of gaming hells, high-class brothels and intimate eating places. For respectable French couples who were sophisticated enough to know what they were doing it was safe enough, likewise for an escorted lady in a small party, but for an innocent like Thea it was fraught with perils.

      He kept the discussion about London theatres going while he fought the instinct to march across, toss Thea over his shoulder and deposit her unceremoniously back at the hotel, sacking Hodge while he was at it. Making a scene was not the way to protect Thea’s reputation and, to be fair, he had told Hodge to escort her wherever she wanted to go.

      He realised the moment she recognised him. Her whole body stiffened, then her head tilted to one side as she studied him, and, doubtless, the woman at his table. It was strange seeing such a typical Thea pose from an elegant lady, dressed in the height of Parisian fashion and with her face hidden.