inch from her own.
“I love you,” he murmured.
Her lips parted, and she gazed back into his eyes—oh, so close to her own.
“I love you too.”
How lame words could be. Especially such words. But it did not matter. It was not words they were saying to each other. It was all that the words meant .
He loved her, and she loved him.
He closed the inch of space, and his lips touched hers.
Oh, no, words were quite, quite unnecessary. Except that they echoed in the mind, the words everyone dreamed of hearing from that special someone and dreamed of saying in return.
I love you .
Her arms twined about his neck, his wrapped more tightly about her waist, and they kissed with all the passion of young love.
Words no longer existed.
B Y M ARY B ALOGH
The Survivors’ Club Series
The Proposal
The Arrangement
The Mistress Series
More than a Mistress
No Man’s Mistress
The Secret Mistress
The Huxtable Series
First Comes Marriage
Then Comes Seduction
At Last Comes Love
Seducing an Angel
A Secret Affair
The Simply Quartet
Simply Unforgettable
Simply Love
Simply Magic
Simply Perfect
The Slightly Series
Slightly Married
Slightly Wicked
Slightly Scandalous
Slightly Tempted
Slightly Sinful
Slightly Dangerous
Beloved Classic Novels
A Summer to Remember
One Night for Love
The Ideal Wife
The Secret Pearl
A Precious Jewel
The Gilded Web
Web of Love
The Devil’s Web
A Christmas Promise
Dark Angel/Lord Carew’s Bride
The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet
The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring
A Christmas Bride/Christmas Beau
A Counterfeit Betrothal/The Notorious Rake
About the Author
MARY BALOGH is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous books, including the acclaimed Survivors’ Club series, Slightly and Simply novels, the Mistress trilogy, and the five titles in her Huxtable series: First Comes Marriage , Then Comes Seduction , At Last Comes Love , Seducing an Angel , and A Secret Affair . A former teacher, she grew up in Wales and now lives in Canada.
www.marybalogh.com
Wondering what became of Vincent Hunt, Viscount Darleigh?
His story continues with …
THE ARRANGEMENT
Coming soon from Dell
Read on for a sneak peek!
2
Vincent’s arrival had not gone unobserved.
Covington House was the last building at one end of the main street through the village. To the far side of it was a low hill covered with trees. There was a young woman on that hill and among those trees. She wandered at all times of day about the countryside surrounding Barton Hall, where she lived with her aunt and uncle, Sir Clarence and Lady March, though she was not often out quite this early. But this morning she had woken when it was still dark and had been unable to get back to sleep. Her window was open, and a bird with a particularly strident call had obviously not noticed that dawn had not yet arrived. So, rather than shut her window and climb back into bed, she had dressed and come outside, chilly as the early morning air was, because there was something rare and lovely about watching the darkness lift away from another dawning day. And she had come here in particular because the trees housed dozens, perhaps hundreds, of birds, many of them with sweeter voices than the one that had awoken her, and they always sang most earnestly when they were heralding a new day.
She stood very still so as not to disturb them, her back against the sturdy trunk of a beech tree, her arms stretched out about it behind her to enjoy its rough texture through her thin gloves—so thin, in fact, that the left thumb and right forefinger had already wornthrough. She drank in the beauty and peace of her surroundings and ignored the cold, which penetrated her almost threadbare cloak as if it were not even there, and set her fingers to tingling.
She looked down upon Covington House, her favorite building in Barton Coombs. It was neither a mansion nor a cottage. It was not even a manor. But it was large and square and solid. It was also deserted and had
“I love you,” he murmured.
Her lips parted, and she gazed back into his eyes—oh, so close to her own.
“I love you too.”
How lame words could be. Especially such words. But it did not matter. It was not words they were saying to each other. It was all that the words meant .
He loved her, and she loved him.
He closed the inch of space, and his lips touched hers.
Oh, no, words were quite, quite unnecessary. Except that they echoed in the mind, the words everyone dreamed of hearing from that special someone and dreamed of saying in return.
I love you .
Her arms twined about his neck, his wrapped more tightly about her waist, and they kissed with all the passion of young love.
Words no longer existed.
B Y M ARY B ALOGH
The Survivors’ Club Series
The Proposal
The Arrangement
The Mistress Series
More than a Mistress
No Man’s Mistress
The Secret Mistress
The Huxtable Series
First Comes Marriage
Then Comes Seduction
At Last Comes Love
Seducing an Angel
A Secret Affair
The Simply Quartet
Simply Unforgettable
Simply Love
Simply Magic
Simply Perfect
The Slightly Series
Slightly Married
Slightly Wicked
Slightly Scandalous
Slightly Tempted
Slightly Sinful
Slightly Dangerous
Beloved Classic Novels
A Summer to Remember
One Night for Love
The Ideal Wife
The Secret Pearl
A Precious Jewel
The Gilded Web
Web of Love
The Devil’s Web
A Christmas Promise
Dark Angel/Lord Carew’s Bride
The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet
The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring
A Christmas Bride/Christmas Beau
A Counterfeit Betrothal/The Notorious Rake
About the Author
MARY BALOGH is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous books, including the acclaimed Survivors’ Club series, Slightly and Simply novels, the Mistress trilogy, and the five titles in her Huxtable series: First Comes Marriage , Then Comes Seduction , At Last Comes Love , Seducing an Angel , and A Secret Affair . A former teacher, she grew up in Wales and now lives in Canada.
www.marybalogh.com
Wondering what became of Vincent Hunt, Viscount Darleigh?
His story continues with …
THE ARRANGEMENT
Coming soon from Dell
Read on for a sneak peek!
2
Vincent’s arrival had not gone unobserved.
Covington House was the last building at one end of the main street through the village. To the far side of it was a low hill covered with trees. There was a young woman on that hill and among those trees. She wandered at all times of day about the countryside surrounding Barton Hall, where she lived with her aunt and uncle, Sir Clarence and Lady March, though she was not often out quite this early. But this morning she had woken when it was still dark and had been unable to get back to sleep. Her window was open, and a bird with a particularly strident call had obviously not noticed that dawn had not yet arrived. So, rather than shut her window and climb back into bed, she had dressed and come outside, chilly as the early morning air was, because there was something rare and lovely about watching the darkness lift away from another dawning day. And she had come here in particular because the trees housed dozens, perhaps hundreds, of birds, many of them with sweeter voices than the one that had awoken her, and they always sang most earnestly when they were heralding a new day.
She stood very still so as not to disturb them, her back against the sturdy trunk of a beech tree, her arms stretched out about it behind her to enjoy its rough texture through her thin gloves—so thin, in fact, that the left thumb and right forefinger had already wornthrough. She drank in the beauty and peace of her surroundings and ignored the cold, which penetrated her almost threadbare cloak as if it were not even there, and set her fingers to tingling.
She looked down upon Covington House, her favorite building in Barton Coombs. It was neither a mansion nor a cottage. It was not even a manor. But it was large and square and solid. It was also deserted and had
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