Skylark by Jo Beverley

always thought them rather conventional. Salt of the earth, et cetera, but if matters become . . . irregular?”
    She winced. “You’re right. But I don’t like to impose on you, Stephen.”
    “Sleep on it,” he said, suppressing all reaction.
    But he could not resist taking her hand and kissing it. Lightly, but even that was more than he’d ever done before. Holding her hand, he said, “I stand your friend, Laura, and I will help you sort this out. It will be no imposition.”
    Her fingers tightened on his. “Then I think heaven did send you here today.”
    “There’s an Eastern philosophy that says that nothing happens by chance. That we are ruled by destiny, which cannot be fought. Good night, Laura.”
    He made himself leave, having found less than he longed for but more than he’d hoped. And probably a great deal more than he deserved.

Chapter 12
    Laura watched the door close, then sank into her chair. Stephen’s last words hung in the air as if they had import, but that must be exhaustion speaking. She needed sleep, but it felt impossible. How could she sleep with her mind and her body in turmoil?
    They’d been together in her boudoir in their nightwear!
    That awareness had prickled over and through her, so it had been a miracle that she’d spoken a word of sense. It sizzled in her still, making even the movement of her cotton nightgown against her skin scarcely bearable.
    She stood and went into her bedroom, stripping off her clothes, then scrubbed with cold water. Disgusting—that’s what it was when carnal lust distracted her from matters of life and death. Life and death for Harry. She clasped a dripping cloth to her breasts and the cold water trickled down, gathering on her thighs.
    The first unmarried, virile man to enter her orbit, and she had become a would-be whore.
    She tossed the useless cloth back in the bowl, but the madness was cooling. When she was dry and back in her nightgown, it no longer tormented her skin. She looked in the mirror, fearing to see a slack-mouthed slut, but she was Laura Gardeyne, lady.
    In her cap. She put her hand to it. Oh, Lord, her cap!
    That had almost been her ruin.
    Hal had made a game of her nightcaps. He liked taking them off, which was largely why she’d worn them. He’d saunter into her bedchamber saying, “Off with that cap, wench. . . .”
    Her body clenched at the memory of the words, at the memory of what always followed. She pressed her hand over her mouth, then bit it. She missed it so much, so much .
    She could relieve herself and she would, but it wasn’t the same. It was more than a year since a man’s strong body had pleasured hers, and it would be many more before one would again, and her tears marked a tragedy fierce enough for the Greeks.
    She climbed into bed but it took a long time to fall asleep, and she woke twice in the night. The second time, unable to settle, she went up to the nursery to reassure herself that Harry was still all right. He was fast asleep and she stood there looking at him, wondering if he’d hate her one day if she managed to free him of a viscountcy.
    That, not lust, had stolen sleep, but it wasn’t as if she had any choice. If Henry senior or junior existed, Caldfort must be theirs. She couldn’t try to prevent that.
    But she would rejoice if Harry became safe and she became free. No lying about that. She wanted to be free to leave, to live, to love.
    She returned to her bedchamber. As she passed Stephen’s room she only allowed herself to think about important matters—the journey and the letter from Azir Al Farouk. Because she was concentrating on that so fiercely, she realized there was something useful she could do. She could sketch a copy of Henry Gardeyne’s portrait.
    Her drawing portfolio was already packed in her coach bag, but she dug it out and slipped into the dim corridor again, candlestick in hand. What would be her excuse if she was caught now? She was almost beyond caring. She’d announce