the sofa’s back, Letitia burrowed her feet under another pillow, rested her head on one hand and returned to reading, but soon her head began to swim. The pillow was so soft and warm…
Clean, shaven and in dry clothes, Percy ran lightly down the stairs and let himself into his favorite room.
The hot bath had taken the chill from his body, but a fire would make the library more pleasant on such a gloomy day. He was about to reach for the tinderbox when he noticed the disarray on his desk.
Someone had piled everything to one side to make room for a tray—and someone had eaten almost half of what was on it, not to mention drunk the wine. Apparently, Slater was aging more quickly than Percy had thought. The butler had never shown poor judgment in the choice of servants, but this was on the outside of acceptable.
Percy picked up the tray and turned around in search of a table with some free surface on which to deposit the ravaged meal. His stomach rumbled in protest at having to wait for its replacement.
Just then, he caught a glimpse of something pinkish on one of the sofas, a foreign object that, he was sure, had not been there yesterday. A quick perusal ended in astonishment.
The pinkish object was his wife.
He quietly put the tray back on the desk, his heart racing at this discovery.
Letitia was fast asleep, one arm under the pillow in which she’d burrowed her face, her hand hanging limply over the edge of the sofa, palm up. Her other hand rested on a small volume, still opened to the page she had been reading. Her feet were buried under another pillow. A few shorter strands of hair had escaped the loosened knot and fallen on her cheek and down her throat. Her breathing was deep and slow.
She looked so fragile and beautiful at the same time, so at peace with her surroundings, and—he searched for the right word—so…right. Yes, she looked right on his sofa in his library. As if she belonged here.
Belonged here? If she did, it was only as the inconvenient part of his marriage of convenience, nothing more.
Carefully, Percy tiptoed over to the sofa, giving in to the sudden craving to peek at her face, and squatted by the armrest. Letitia’s cheek was rosy from sleep, and long, golden lashes gave her face a nearly angelic aura. Her slightly parted lips beckoned. All he needed to do was lean a bit forward and touch them with his own.
Wincing, Percy shifted his gaze away from her mouth. But, damn him, it slid to her breasts lifting the fabric of the dress with each breath, to the ivory skin of her shoulders and to the long, smooth column of her throat. He swallowed. Desire swirled through him out of nowhere, like a potent blast of wind.
Getting up hastily, he warned himself that giving in to temptation was absolutely out of question. What he should do now was to wake her up, send her on her way and get to work.
Instead, Percy tiptoed to the two smaller sofas and retrieved a blanket that until now had spent a useless life thrown over an armrest. Back by Letitia’s side, he carefully spread the blanket over her.
She murmured something under her breath and burrowed deeper into the pillows.
He felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and bent to pull the book from under her palm before it fell to the floor. She moved her fingers and murmured something again, but did not wake.
Schiller. He recognized the slim volume, putting it on the table. The very one he had bought in London just before meeting Sarah for the first time. Then he’d tried to read it to her when she came here as his bride. Sarah hadn’t liked it.
She hadn’t liked coming to the library, either, and had kept her books in her room. It had surprised him after her death that most of them were about India. She’d never talked about India. She’d never talked much about anything except being unwell.
Life surely could deal one a surprising hand. The first two weeks of his marriage to Sarah were etched in his memory as days of nearly
Clean, shaven and in dry clothes, Percy ran lightly down the stairs and let himself into his favorite room.
The hot bath had taken the chill from his body, but a fire would make the library more pleasant on such a gloomy day. He was about to reach for the tinderbox when he noticed the disarray on his desk.
Someone had piled everything to one side to make room for a tray—and someone had eaten almost half of what was on it, not to mention drunk the wine. Apparently, Slater was aging more quickly than Percy had thought. The butler had never shown poor judgment in the choice of servants, but this was on the outside of acceptable.
Percy picked up the tray and turned around in search of a table with some free surface on which to deposit the ravaged meal. His stomach rumbled in protest at having to wait for its replacement.
Just then, he caught a glimpse of something pinkish on one of the sofas, a foreign object that, he was sure, had not been there yesterday. A quick perusal ended in astonishment.
The pinkish object was his wife.
He quietly put the tray back on the desk, his heart racing at this discovery.
Letitia was fast asleep, one arm under the pillow in which she’d burrowed her face, her hand hanging limply over the edge of the sofa, palm up. Her other hand rested on a small volume, still opened to the page she had been reading. Her feet were buried under another pillow. A few shorter strands of hair had escaped the loosened knot and fallen on her cheek and down her throat. Her breathing was deep and slow.
She looked so fragile and beautiful at the same time, so at peace with her surroundings, and—he searched for the right word—so…right. Yes, she looked right on his sofa in his library. As if she belonged here.
Belonged here? If she did, it was only as the inconvenient part of his marriage of convenience, nothing more.
Carefully, Percy tiptoed over to the sofa, giving in to the sudden craving to peek at her face, and squatted by the armrest. Letitia’s cheek was rosy from sleep, and long, golden lashes gave her face a nearly angelic aura. Her slightly parted lips beckoned. All he needed to do was lean a bit forward and touch them with his own.
Wincing, Percy shifted his gaze away from her mouth. But, damn him, it slid to her breasts lifting the fabric of the dress with each breath, to the ivory skin of her shoulders and to the long, smooth column of her throat. He swallowed. Desire swirled through him out of nowhere, like a potent blast of wind.
Getting up hastily, he warned himself that giving in to temptation was absolutely out of question. What he should do now was to wake her up, send her on her way and get to work.
Instead, Percy tiptoed to the two smaller sofas and retrieved a blanket that until now had spent a useless life thrown over an armrest. Back by Letitia’s side, he carefully spread the blanket over her.
She murmured something under her breath and burrowed deeper into the pillows.
He felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and bent to pull the book from under her palm before it fell to the floor. She moved her fingers and murmured something again, but did not wake.
Schiller. He recognized the slim volume, putting it on the table. The very one he had bought in London just before meeting Sarah for the first time. Then he’d tried to read it to her when she came here as his bride. Sarah hadn’t liked it.
She hadn’t liked coming to the library, either, and had kept her books in her room. It had surprised him after her death that most of them were about India. She’d never talked about India. She’d never talked much about anything except being unwell.
Life surely could deal one a surprising hand. The first two weeks of his marriage to Sarah were etched in his memory as days of nearly
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