“Slut. w***e. Strumpet.” Richard Graves muttered the curses under his breath as his carriage bobbed and swayed along the road back to London. To think that for three weeks he’d wined and dined the girl, taken her to the theater, museums, shown her all the best that London had to offer and this was how she thanked him! For God’s sake, she’d never been out of France before this.
He slumped back and stared out the window. Arrogant little b***h. He could have his pick any day of debutantes, widows and divorcees. He’d chosen her and she’d rejected him. The way her mother had twenty-five years ago.
Graves shook his head. That was something he could never understand. How had Martin Poole won over the great Sandrine Maynard? Poole was rather short, with red hair, stubby fingers and no athletic p
