~cov0001.jpg by Lisa Kleypas

if you consider a reluctant husband better than none. He doesn't want to marry her.”
    “But you convinced him that it was the right thing to do.”
    “That doesn't mean he won't make Nan pay for it in a hundred different ways.” He shrugged. “At least the child won't be born a bastard.”
    Warily Tasia watched him through the screens of her lashes. “Sir…do you intend to dismiss me?”
    “I considered it.” There was a deliberate silence before he continued. “But I've decided against it.”
    “Then I'm to stay on?”
    “For the meantime.”
    Tasia was so relieved that her knees wobbled. “Thank you,” she whispered. She crouched to gather the pile of books, sitting lightly on her heels.
    To her dismay, Stokehurst came to help. He bent and tucked a couple of the heavy volumes beneath his left arm. They reached for a book at the same time, their fingers brushing. Startled by the touch of his warm hand, Tasia jerked back so sharply that her balance was lost. She fell back in an awkward heap on the floor. She was as stunned as she was humiliated. She was never clumsy. Her face burned at Stokehurst's quiet laughter.
    Rising to his feet, Stokehurst replaced the books on the shelf and reached down for her. He pulled her up effortlessly, his powerful grip engulfing her hand up to her wrist. Although his hold was gentle, there was a hint of alarming strength in it. How easy it would be for him to snap her bones like matchsticks. Tasia stepped back from him quickly, smoothing her skirts and yanking the waist of her bodice to settle everything in place.
    “Which book did you want?” Stokehurst asked, his blue eyes gleaming with amusement.
    Blindly Tasia pulled one from the shelf, not bothering to read the title. She held it flat against her chest, as if it would shield her from his mockery. “This one will do.”
    “Very well. Goodnight, Miss Billings.”
    Although she had been dismissed, Tasia didn't move. “Sir,” she said hesitantly, “if you have a moment, there is something I would like to talk to you about.”
    “Another downtrodden housemaid?” he asked in jeering apprehension.
    “No, my lord. It's about Emma. She…found out about Nan's situation. Naturally she has been asking questions. Sir, it occurred to me…Well, it reminded me…I asked Emma if anyone has ever talked to her about…You see, she's old enough to begin…She's of the age when girls…You understand.”
    Stokehurst shook his head, his alert gaze trained on her.
    Tasia cleared her throat. “I'm referring to the time each month when women…” She stopped again. In her embarrassment, she wished she could drop through the floor. She had never said anything so intimate to any man.
    “I see.” His voice sounded strange. When Tasia risked another look at him, she saw a comical mixture of surprise and dismay on his face. “I hadn't thought about that,” he muttered. “She's still a little girl.”
    “Twelve.” Tasia twisted her fingers together. “Sir, I didn't…My mother neglected to explain to me…and then one day…I-I was very frightened. I would not wish for Emma to be so unprepared.”
    Stokehurst went to the bronze table, picking up his drink. “Neither would I.” He downed the rest of the liquor in a single gulp.
    “Then I have your permission to talk to her?”
    Luke shook his head, gripping his empty glass. “I don't know.” He hadn't wanted to accept the signs that Emma was getting older. The idea of his daughter beginning her monthly flow, developing a woman's body, a woman's emotions and desires…it was too soon. It made him uneasy. He'd never allowed himself to think about it before. Someone had to prepare Emma for the changes that would take place as she matured. But who? His sister was too far away, and his mother was as likely to tell Emma some nonsensical story as the truth. The duchess was a woman of refined sensibilities. She disapproved of Southgate Hall's French decor, considering all rococo curves