Her foot, ceasing its impatient taps on the floor, came down with a peremptory crack. Just thinking of it made her temper seethe. The crimson sari silk with iridescent flaming colors had enveloped her young body like sorcery, and Alice was now certain the trouble it brewed that night had boiled over. A witchy look had flickered through Catherine's extraordinary eyes, and to Alice's dismay, she chose to wear the most daring of the new dresses to greet guests for Christmas dinner. She might have known Catherine would deduce the new wardrobe carried a whiff of suitors along with innocent lavender. Alice might be unlettered, but she knew what spelled "come hither." She should have foreseen trouble a week ago on Christmas Eve when she told Catherine of the Parisian wardrobe the viscount had purchased for her. The viscount had merely been amused, but Alice, aware of the difficulties of Catherine's adjustment to the school, pitied her.Ĭatherine's posterior languorously shifted position, and her old nursemaid's sympathy evaporated as she scowled at that offending bit of anatomy. Her schoolmates invariably followed her lead, whether in reading discourses on female equality by that Italian woman, Gaetana Agnesi, or sneaking out in male attire to unsuitable entertainments. The creature could be sly in four languages, but could not be caught being insolent in any of them. In the opinion of the school directors, the countess had had her way too much and, thanks to her diplomat father, seen too much of the world for a girl not yet seventeen. Letters about Catherine from that establishment were disapproving.
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Alice's face turned wistful.Ĭatherine, daughter of John Enderly, viscount of Windemere, and countess in her own right, had been sent to The Gentlewoman's Academy in Bath after her mother's death five years past. It had not been unusual at Windemere to see fledgling cooks and dukes haul on the same rope in Tug o' War while a muddied Catherine yelled encouragement and dragged with the best of them. They had never been the eyes of a child, unless the child were fey Oberon's own.Īlice had hoped this past year in Bath would see Catherine develop into a fashionable young lady, but when Catherine arrived home for the Christmas holidays, she seemed little different from the hoyden who had mingled unselfconsciously with children of servants. Her remarkable eyes, almond-shaped, heavily lashed, were an iridescent blue as restless in shade as opals. Small-boned, with a coltish grace and an unruly riot of black hair so fine it seemed to snap blue, Catherine usually resembled a disreputable urchin because of her indifference to dress. No angel, little Catherine!Ĭatherine was a minx. She glowered at the angelically serene young creature who had her head stuffed under satin point d'esprit pillows. Tap, tap, tap, the nursemaid's broad foot briskly connected with the floor. Alice shifted her unaccustomed weapon and her considerable weight at the same time. Special thanks to Claudia Wall, Sergei Timachea, and Anne Lorcy. To my beloved wingmate, Jon, and fledgling, Jenni. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U. For information address the Denise Marcil Literary Agency, 316 West 82nd Street, New York, New York 10024ĪVON TRADEMARK REG. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.Ĭopyright e 1984 by Christine Monson Published by arrangement with the author Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 84-90894Īll rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U. This work has never before appeared in book form. STORMFIRE is an original publication of Avon Books.
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Passion rose in fiery waves, pouring over the edge of the world, a descent into the inferno, bodies locked in a fusion of molten desire. Frighteningly, he needed her now, though she had denied him in rage and pride as he had her.Īs the knife clattered to the deck, a fleck of crimson over the Irishman's heart smeared against her breast as he swept her into his arms and crushed his mouth down upon her cold lips, kissing her as if the tempest raging about them were centered in his soul. This strange, brooding man had become part of her.
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She thrust the knife forward, but at the last moment looked into eyes that reflected the storm.