Touch of a Lady by Mia Marlowe Page A

be eminently “eligible” by the matrons of the ton. This lady was preoccupied with a sketchbook and completely unaware of his presence. He could indulge in looking his fill at her unassuming beauty without concern over whether someone would take note, calculate his interest, and hope to capitalize on it.
    A bachelor who wanted to remain in that happy state couldn’t be too careful.
    The lovely woman in his garden was an unexpected windfall of distraction from the pounding in his temples. Devon almost blessed the grinding headache that had made him decide to take a turn in the fresh morning air before he sought his bed. He’d expected to be soothed by the scent of sweet lavender, the drowsy hum of bees in the St. John’s Wort, and the patter of the fountain. The shaded alcoves of the garden behind his London town house eased his light-sensitive eyes. His quiet little Eden often relieved his suffering when he overused his “gift.”
    The alternative was turning to hard drink, which muddled his thinking, or opiates, which obliterated thought entirely. Devon was determined to resist those remedies as long as possible.
    Fortune had been kind through the long night of gambling at his club. While he frequently lost money in the stock market, a deck of cards never lied to him. His gift of touch allowed him to make up shortfalls in the estate’s balance sheet over a game of whist or poque.
    Devon moved further along the path and peered at the girl from behind the topiary. Instead of admiring the flora his gardener spent so much time pruning and fussing over, she focused on the statue of an inebriated Dionysus. Head bent, pointed pink tongue clamped between her teeth in concentration, she labored over her drawing.
    Ever since it had been noised about that Queen Victoria was a dab hand at sketches and water colors, every woman in England fancied herself an amateur artist.
    But that still didn’t explain the young lady’s presence in his garden.
    Devon moved around behind her, brushing past the roses to get a better angle from which to view her unobserved. A thorn nicked the back of his hand. He gave it a shake and brought it reflexively to his mouth to suck at the small wound while he eyed the supple line of the woman’s spine. Her spreading skirts emphasized a narrow waist.
    A single auburn curl had escaped her bonnet and trailed damply on her nape. Her tender skin appeared dewy and pink in the warm morning sun. He was surprised by the urge to plant a kiss on that spot, but tamped down the inclination at once.
    Not that Devon was a monk. He was simply careful not to involve himself with the sort of woman who looked as if she might require a trip to the parson should a man take liberties. With her buttoned-down collar and crisply starched sleeves, this woman seemed that sort, even though the tight bodice displayed a full bosom.
    But what man didn’t prefer taking liberties when he could?
    He moved closer so he could peer over her shoulder to see her artwork. She’d neatly captured Dionysus in every detail, even down to the arc of water spewing from the god’s flaccid member into the basin of the stone fountain. Judging from the accurate rendering on the page, the lady possessed more than passing talent with a pencil.
    And more than adequate understanding of male anatomy.
    “You’re blocking my light,” she said without looking up.
    Devon stepped aside so his shadow wouldn’t continue to darken her page. He was treated to a clear view of her delicate profile. The slight upturn of her nose pleased him. It meant that while she was spectacularly pretty, she wasn’t perfect.
    Perfection was boring. And often demanding.
    “The sketch doesn’t seem to have suffered for my intrusion,” he said. “You have an excellent drafting hand, if I may say so.”
    “You may.” Her lips curved upward in a satisfied, feline smile over his compliment. “No harm done. I’m nearly finished as it is.”
    No harm done? Did she expect an