Читать книгу The Mysterious Miss M - Diane Gaston - Страница 2

“Like England herself, beautiful to behold. In fact, I shall call you Miss England.”

“Do not be so foolish, sir. The fabric of my dress is Indian. The design is French and the style Roman. My mask is Venetian. My pearls are Oriental. I think my shoes are from Spain. There is nothing of England here.”

His finger traced the edge of the demure bodice of her dress, where the fullness of her breasts was only hinted at. He hooked his finger under the material and pulled it away from her skin, allowing a soft touch of what was below.

“I suspect,” he murmured, stroking her skin and gazing into her eyes, “underneath you are pure England.”

“Not pure, my lord,” she whispered as his fingers did lovely things to her soft skin. “Not pure at all.”