The Tiger's Lady by Christina Skye

pocket. It is a curse—a curse beyond anything in this world.”
    His companion clucked impatiently. “Really, my lord, sometimes I think you have been in the East too long. It has changed you—in ways you do not even suspect.”
    “Do you think so?” her companion asked mockingly. “For myself, I think I have not been there long enough.” The rajah carelessly unfastened the sapphire pin from his turban and dropped it onto the table.
    Thick and black, his hair emerged from beneath the purple cloth. Moments later his jeweled tunic and embroidered sash fell away.
    In the firelight his torso gleamed like molten bronze, lean and hard-muscled.
    Tanned, but not nearly so dark as the mahogany of his face.
    His long fingers dropped to his waist; impatiently he stripped away his loose silk breeches and slippers. And then he stood, quite naked, his chest matted with curling hair, his long flanks polished to a fiery sheen by the firelight.
    He frowned then, this man whose body was such a strange mosaic of mahogany and patches of lighter bronze.
    “Deveril.” The word was a hungry sigh. Helene wet her lips, gazing at that tall, lean body.
    A strange man, an arrogant man.
    And a man who was no more a rajah than she was a Frenchwoman.
    Her visitor’s name and title, in fact, were as English as they came. For the man before the fire was none other than the elusive Julian Fitzroy Deveril Pagan, Marquess of Hamilton and Staunton. Viscount St. Cyr.
    And it was his ruby which had sold at auction that night.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    Deveril.
    He still had the most magnificent body Helene had ever seen.
    Her amber eyes darkened, taking in the sight of her companion’s lithe, work-hardened back and shoulders. It was, she thought, a stunning body. Awesome. Powerful. Perfectly proportioned.
    And splendidly uninhibited.
    Yes, in that disguise he was the very image of his old friend, the real Rajah of Ranapore. Only he was back in India right now.
    Hungrily she followed the broad curve of shoulder down to the rippling back and bronzed flanks, lean and powerful in the firelight.
    At that moment the jaded, sophisticated owner of London’s finest brothel found herself contemplating a great folly. She who should have known better found herself thinking about leaving everything and throwing in her lot with the magnificent male before her.
    Thankfully, the moment of weakness passed. Long ago Helene had learned—back when she was simple Helen Lawrence—that love was a weakness women did far better without.
    So instead of blurting out a foolish declaration and spoiling everything, Helene frowned and shook her head. “Really, Deveril, you are quite mad! If anyone else had discovered your damnable masquerade—”
    Her companion smiled coolly, his eyes mocking. “Ah, but my performance was flawless. The ruby was sold, and none the wiser. Not one person in that jaded crowd had the slightest idea who I was, not even that bastard Ruxley.” The viscount’s face hardened. “My secret is safe with you, I trust. Tomorrow night you may tell whomever you like, Helene, for I’ll be gone. But for now, let’s just say that I don’t fancy the Queen’s minions descending like a plague of malarial mosquitoes, anxious to give me ribbons for…”
    He did not finish.
    “For what you did at Cawnpore? For saving those women and children from the mutineers?”
    Pagan’s eyes glittered as he stared down into the dancing flames. “As God is my witness, I’ll take no ribbons for that.” His jaw locked in rigid lines. “Not when I couldn’t save my own mother!”
    “Your mother?” Helene frowned. “From all you told me you had an impossible choice at that cliff near Cawnpore. Neither the duchess nor your ayah could have made it up without your help. And there was only time to save one of them, with the mutineers right on your heels. Be glad that in the end the ayah—your real mother —made the choice for you, pushing the duchess forward and then turning back