enough to expect perfection. Personally I’d find being with a “perfect” person hell on earth, having enough faults myself to fill a book.’
‘That sort of person doesn’t see their own faults though.’
Her voice had been curiously toneless. Morgan kept all emotion out of his voice when he said, ‘Are you speaking from experience? And you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.’
Her eyes flickered and fell from his, but her voice was steady: ‘Yes, I am.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘That’s a beautiful clock. Unusual.’
Morgan accepted the change of conversation with good grace although he found he was aching to know more. ‘It’s a French timepiece I picked up at an auction in France some years ago. The clock itself is mounted in a stirrup and horseshoe. I like unusual things. Things that don’t follow a pattern. Unique things.’
Her gaze moved to the two bronze figures either side of the clock, each in the form of dancing fauns. ‘I can see that. Are the fauns French too? They’re very beautiful.’
‘Italian, eighteenth century.’
They continued discussing the various objects of art in the room in the couple of minutes before Kitty put her head round the door to say dinner was ready, but Morgan found it difficult to concentrate. Who was this man who’d hurt her so badly? If it was a man. But it had to be; he felt it in his bones. What had he been to her and how had she got mixed up with him in the first place? Not that it was any of his business, of course.
He took Willow’s arm as they walked through to the dining room where Kitty had set two places. She had lit candles in the middle of the table and the lights were dimmed; clearly their discussion about her matchmaking had had no effect at all.
Willow’s hair smelt of peach shampoo, which was fairly innocuous as perfume went; why it should prompt urges of such an erotic nature the walk to the dining room was a sweet agony in his loins, he didn’t know. He glanced down at the sheen of her hair as he pulled out her chair for her and resisted the impulse to put his lips to it.
Pull yourself together. The warning was grim. He was acting like a young boy wet behind the ears and on his first date with a member of the opposite sex, not a thirty-five-year-old man who had shared his bed and his life with several women in his time; some for a few months, some longer. Experience told him Willow Landon was not the sort of woman who would enter into a light relationship for the hell of it, she was too…
What was she? the other section of his mind, which was working dispassionately, asked. Clingy? Trusting? Stifling?
No. None of those. The opposite in fact. She didn’tstrike him as a woman who had marriage and roses-round-the-door in mind. From what he could ascertain so far the male of the species didn’t feature highly in her estimation. But neither was she the kind of woman who would enjoy an affair for however long it lasted and then walk away with no tears or regrets. He didn’t know how he’d come by the knowledge but he was sure of it.
‘This is lovely.’ Willow glanced round the dining room appreciatively. ‘Do you always eat in such style?’
Morgan glanced round the room as though he were seeing it for the first time, his gaze moving over the table set with fine linen, silver and crystal. ‘Always. Kitty takes her duties very seriously,’ he added dryly, reaching for the bottle of red wine. He poured two glasses and handed Willow hers, raising his as he murmured, ‘To chimney sweeps and the good work they do.’
She giggled.
It was the first really natural response he’d had and he had to swallow hard as his heart began to hammer in his ribcage. He drank deeply of the wine, needing its boost to his system. It was a fine red; enough complexity showing from the skilful blending to bring out the cherry and berry flavours without spoiling the soft oaky flavours of the French and American
‘That sort of person doesn’t see their own faults though.’
Her voice had been curiously toneless. Morgan kept all emotion out of his voice when he said, ‘Are you speaking from experience? And you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.’
Her eyes flickered and fell from his, but her voice was steady: ‘Yes, I am.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘That’s a beautiful clock. Unusual.’
Morgan accepted the change of conversation with good grace although he found he was aching to know more. ‘It’s a French timepiece I picked up at an auction in France some years ago. The clock itself is mounted in a stirrup and horseshoe. I like unusual things. Things that don’t follow a pattern. Unique things.’
Her gaze moved to the two bronze figures either side of the clock, each in the form of dancing fauns. ‘I can see that. Are the fauns French too? They’re very beautiful.’
‘Italian, eighteenth century.’
They continued discussing the various objects of art in the room in the couple of minutes before Kitty put her head round the door to say dinner was ready, but Morgan found it difficult to concentrate. Who was this man who’d hurt her so badly? If it was a man. But it had to be; he felt it in his bones. What had he been to her and how had she got mixed up with him in the first place? Not that it was any of his business, of course.
He took Willow’s arm as they walked through to the dining room where Kitty had set two places. She had lit candles in the middle of the table and the lights were dimmed; clearly their discussion about her matchmaking had had no effect at all.
Willow’s hair smelt of peach shampoo, which was fairly innocuous as perfume went; why it should prompt urges of such an erotic nature the walk to the dining room was a sweet agony in his loins, he didn’t know. He glanced down at the sheen of her hair as he pulled out her chair for her and resisted the impulse to put his lips to it.
Pull yourself together. The warning was grim. He was acting like a young boy wet behind the ears and on his first date with a member of the opposite sex, not a thirty-five-year-old man who had shared his bed and his life with several women in his time; some for a few months, some longer. Experience told him Willow Landon was not the sort of woman who would enter into a light relationship for the hell of it, she was too…
What was she? the other section of his mind, which was working dispassionately, asked. Clingy? Trusting? Stifling?
No. None of those. The opposite in fact. She didn’tstrike him as a woman who had marriage and roses-round-the-door in mind. From what he could ascertain so far the male of the species didn’t feature highly in her estimation. But neither was she the kind of woman who would enjoy an affair for however long it lasted and then walk away with no tears or regrets. He didn’t know how he’d come by the knowledge but he was sure of it.
‘This is lovely.’ Willow glanced round the dining room appreciatively. ‘Do you always eat in such style?’
Morgan glanced round the room as though he were seeing it for the first time, his gaze moving over the table set with fine linen, silver and crystal. ‘Always. Kitty takes her duties very seriously,’ he added dryly, reaching for the bottle of red wine. He poured two glasses and handed Willow hers, raising his as he murmured, ‘To chimney sweeps and the good work they do.’
She giggled.
It was the first really natural response he’d had and he had to swallow hard as his heart began to hammer in his ribcage. He drank deeply of the wine, needing its boost to his system. It was a fine red; enough complexity showing from the skilful blending to bring out the cherry and berry flavours without spoiling the soft oaky flavours of the French and American
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