step, reaching out, he grazed his gloved knuckle over her eyelashes. “You overlooked a tear, sweeting.”
“It’s a woman’s right to cry when she accepts a proposal of marriage.”
“Indeed. I find women weep over a great many things.”
“I don’t,” she assured him.
“No, I suspect you don’t.”
The final refrain from the song drifted over her, around her, through her.
“I shall call on you the day after tomorrow,” he said solemnly.
She nodded quickly, her throat tightening and tears threatening to fill her eyes. She refused to cry again for all they would not have—especially in front of him. “I’ll be waiting.”
She should have contented herself with the nod instead of speaking in a voice that greatly resembled a bullfrog sitting on the muddy bank of a creek back home.
“As you mentioned, sometimes things appear different in the morning,” he said, repeating her earlier comment. “I’ll understand if you have a change of heart and decide not to see me when I arrive.”
She angled her chin defiantly. “I’m not one to go back on my word.”
He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “Until then…sleep well.”
She would have sworn the room became quiet enough for a prayer meeting as his long, confident strides carried him away from her.
As for sleeping well, she doubted that she would sleep at all.
Chapter 5
L ounging in a chair before the cold, empty hearth in his bedchamber, Devon studied the portrait of his wife that hung above the marble mantel. He supposed he would have to place it elsewhere. It would be bad form to leave it here where his new wife might happen upon it.
He had not expected to be drawn to Georgina Pierce. Not attracted in the classical sense, but drawn as the ocean laps at the shore. It cannot stop its momentum forward, and even after it retreats, it quickly returns.
Amazingly he’d possessed a strong desire to return to her for another dance. Perhaps it was the lure of that solitary tear clinging to her dark lash as an early morning dewdrop on the petal of a red rose might.
During the journey home, he’d constantly stroked the spot on his glove that carried the dampness fromher tear. He could not prevent himself from wondering at her reason for weeping. For joy because he had rescued her from the fate of a spinster? Or from disappointment because he hadn’t spoken of undying love?
He presumed disappointment was the culprit. She’d made it perfectly clear that she didn’t anticipate flattery. Strange how once she’d forbidden it, he’d wanted to inundate her with it.
Not the idiotic moon pales in comparison garbage that he still had difficulty believing he’d uttered earlier. Rather something more substantial, more honest. He doubted that he would ever view her as gorgeous, but something about her that he couldn’t quite identify intrigued him. Perhaps their marriage would not be as disheartening as he’d envisioned.
Yet he seriously doubted it would resemble his marriage to Margaret in any manner. Theirs had been one of passion. He had loved her with every aspect of his existence. Even when she had turned away from him. When his touch had repulsed her because his hands were no longer those of a gentleman.
This evening his gloves had hidden that disgraceful fact from Miss Pierce, but she would no doubt notice during their wedding night when he sought to fulfill his promise to give her a child. The calluses on his palms would abrade her skin.
Margaret had come to loathe the roughness of his hands. No matter how lightly he’d touched her, she’d claimed he hurt her delicate flesh. No matter how often he’d bathed, she’d sworn he smelled as though he’d rolled in the fields.
When he’d gone to her bed, she’d wept for all they’d once had and mourned all they no longer possessed. He’d lost her long before she died.
He’d been lonely for such a long time now. Lonely and alone.
He had failed Margaret, and in so
“It’s a woman’s right to cry when she accepts a proposal of marriage.”
“Indeed. I find women weep over a great many things.”
“I don’t,” she assured him.
“No, I suspect you don’t.”
The final refrain from the song drifted over her, around her, through her.
“I shall call on you the day after tomorrow,” he said solemnly.
She nodded quickly, her throat tightening and tears threatening to fill her eyes. She refused to cry again for all they would not have—especially in front of him. “I’ll be waiting.”
She should have contented herself with the nod instead of speaking in a voice that greatly resembled a bullfrog sitting on the muddy bank of a creek back home.
“As you mentioned, sometimes things appear different in the morning,” he said, repeating her earlier comment. “I’ll understand if you have a change of heart and decide not to see me when I arrive.”
She angled her chin defiantly. “I’m not one to go back on my word.”
He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “Until then…sleep well.”
She would have sworn the room became quiet enough for a prayer meeting as his long, confident strides carried him away from her.
As for sleeping well, she doubted that she would sleep at all.
Chapter 5
L ounging in a chair before the cold, empty hearth in his bedchamber, Devon studied the portrait of his wife that hung above the marble mantel. He supposed he would have to place it elsewhere. It would be bad form to leave it here where his new wife might happen upon it.
He had not expected to be drawn to Georgina Pierce. Not attracted in the classical sense, but drawn as the ocean laps at the shore. It cannot stop its momentum forward, and even after it retreats, it quickly returns.
Amazingly he’d possessed a strong desire to return to her for another dance. Perhaps it was the lure of that solitary tear clinging to her dark lash as an early morning dewdrop on the petal of a red rose might.
During the journey home, he’d constantly stroked the spot on his glove that carried the dampness fromher tear. He could not prevent himself from wondering at her reason for weeping. For joy because he had rescued her from the fate of a spinster? Or from disappointment because he hadn’t spoken of undying love?
He presumed disappointment was the culprit. She’d made it perfectly clear that she didn’t anticipate flattery. Strange how once she’d forbidden it, he’d wanted to inundate her with it.
Not the idiotic moon pales in comparison garbage that he still had difficulty believing he’d uttered earlier. Rather something more substantial, more honest. He doubted that he would ever view her as gorgeous, but something about her that he couldn’t quite identify intrigued him. Perhaps their marriage would not be as disheartening as he’d envisioned.
Yet he seriously doubted it would resemble his marriage to Margaret in any manner. Theirs had been one of passion. He had loved her with every aspect of his existence. Even when she had turned away from him. When his touch had repulsed her because his hands were no longer those of a gentleman.
This evening his gloves had hidden that disgraceful fact from Miss Pierce, but she would no doubt notice during their wedding night when he sought to fulfill his promise to give her a child. The calluses on his palms would abrade her skin.
Margaret had come to loathe the roughness of his hands. No matter how lightly he’d touched her, she’d claimed he hurt her delicate flesh. No matter how often he’d bathed, she’d sworn he smelled as though he’d rolled in the fields.
When he’d gone to her bed, she’d wept for all they’d once had and mourned all they no longer possessed. He’d lost her long before she died.
He’d been lonely for such a long time now. Lonely and alone.
He had failed Margaret, and in so
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