11
Thomas Blankenship stood in the parlor of Evangeline Mirabeau’s townhouse, admiring the woman. She reclined on a chaise and watched him through hooded eyes painted an unusual, rich, honey-colored hazel. Her curves—large breasts and shapely legs, revealed through a dampened muslin gown in thin blue—could easily harden a man. Her pale blonde hair curled in perfect ringlets down her neck and back.
Blankenship smiled. It was no surprise that this courtesan had been the Duke of Essex’s lover for a year and then some. If Blankenship didn’t contain such a hatred for whores, he would be tempted to sate his desires between this woman’s thighs. Evangeline had the body of a siren, one that beckoned men to perish upon the rocks at sea, but she lacked Emily’s innocence and sweet nature. He craved
