Debt of Honor by Ann Clement

underscored her sensuality. More than once, his hands had begged for the repetition of the touch, and his brain, and perhaps also other parts, had recalled the exquisite feeling her alluring curves gave him when he prevented her fall on the stairs. More than once when he watched her mouth while she was speaking, he had thought of his tongue slipping between those inviting lips. And many more times than once, he had issued a stern warning to himself to abandon this foolery.
    Ethel had infuriated him with her blatant attempt to stake a claim to his wife. Whatever she had told Letitia during the half hour they spent together in the gardens had put Letitia on edge for the rest of the day. If there were any friendships he was not overjoyed to see his wife develop, this was the one. Ethel’s nosiness had always irritated him. Her overzealous attempts to run his house after Sarah’s death had nearly driven him to uncivil behavior a few times. Ethel would surely try to ingratiate herself with Letitia, in which case he might be forced to endure her overbearing presence more often than he wished.
    The footmen carrying the hot water arrived right on his heels, and soon Percy let himself sink into the heat of his bath, closing his eyes for a moment. Thank God Letitia kept to her rooms. He liked that. They would eat dinner together today. That would be enough. Wycombe Oaks’ ledgers sat on his desk in the library, and they definitely needed more attention than his wife.
    The unexpected intruder was a kitchen maid holding a large tray.
    “Where would you like me to put your refreshments, my lady?” the girl asked.
    How thoughtful of Slater to send up some food. After all, she’d hardly had a bite for breakfast. The old hawk must have noticed. But how did he know where to find her?
    The girl stared at her expectantly, so Letitia pushed Arthur Young’s book and the ledgers to the side. “Here on the desk, if you please.”
    The maid deposited the tray, curtsied and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
    Letitia sniffed. The delicious smell of smoked ham, fruits and freshly baked bread made her stomach give a little gurgle of appreciation. She plucked the largest strawberry from the cook’s artful arrangement and took a big bite. Sweet juice rolled over her tongue. She popped the rest of the strawberry into her mouth, then followed with a few paper-thin slices of ham. It was easy to keep a good table with a cook like her husband’s. And that bread. Even her father’s French master never came close to such perfection.
    Letitia poured herself a glass of wine from the small carafe Slater had placed on the tray. Without water, it tasted stronger than what she was used to, but it was really good. She must thank Slater for his thoughtfulness.
    After another slice of bread, she took a halved peach, no doubt plucked from Sir Percival’s hothouse, and set out for a leisurely stroll along the shelves while eating the delicious fruit. The perusal of titles on the book spines confirmed her suspicion. Her husband’s library was a shrine to agriculture. She never imagined there could be so many books on this subject and in one place.
    But at the other end of the room, she found an excellent choice of literature. All major English authors with whom she was familiar. And even some foreign writers and poets of recent fame. No doubt Sarah’s doing.
    Her fingers skimmed over the spines on one of the shelves until they stopped on a slim volume with Schiller’s name on it. She pulled it out and read the title. A play she didn’t know. The long, plump sofa was right behind her, and Letitia sank into its overstuffed cushion, open book in one hand.
    The rain still pelted the windows, and the darkness of the day did not make reading easy. She could light the candles, but getting up seemed like an enormous effort. With the toes of each foot, she slid off her slippers and shifted to stretch her legs on the seat. Leaning comfortably against