What a Lady Craves by Ashlyn Macnamara Page A

left off a week ago, as if he’d never passed through.
    And what of the future? What happens when he remarries and brings his family for a visit, and you’re still here?
    The question came to her mind unbidden, but she would face that eventuality when it happened. If he were at all conscientious, he’d avoid prolonged holidays, as long as she remained in his aunt’s employ.
    He rubbed his chin and eyed her, considering. “This will seem like an odd question, I suppose.”
    She raised her brows. “I don’t understand.”
    The briefest of smiles eased his features into gentler planes. “You will the moment I ask you. You must know I’m not one for gossip, but there it is. What do you know of my sister?”
    Sister? He wanted to speak to her urgently to discuss his sister? “Which one?”
    “Cecelia.”
    “Oh.” She searched her brain and came up with little. “Last I heard, she was engaged. Was it to Lord …? No, I cannot recall.”
    “Apparently she no longer is.” He rubbed the back of his neck, dislodging several spikes of sandy blond hair in the process. “I was hoping you could tell me why that was.”
    Wonderful, just wonderful. The heat she’d experienced in the breakfast room came flooding back. Now she’d have to stand here and explain to him why she’d all but withdrawn from society and was thus in a poor position to keep up with the latest
on-dits.
“Why haven’t you asked your aunt for the news? She keeps up with this sort of thing far better than I do.”
    He swept at his fringe. So distracting those locks of hair. An urge rose in her to pushthem back from his forehead, but that would involve touching him. Physical contact with him was dangerous.
    “Then you’ve heard nothing?” he asked.
    She racked her brain. Cecelia. Cecelia Sanford. Henrietta recalled her well enough, a vivacious, dark-haired beauty, bubbling where her brother was all rigid seriousness. She was his exact opposite. Engaged to Lord Anstruther—that was the name—but if Henrietta had heard whispers of Cecelia crying off, she’d quite forgotten why. “I’m afraid I don’t remember anything.”
    “Then perhaps the matter is not too serious, though that’s not what my aunt claimed.”
    Henrietta blew out a breath. She was simply going to have to tell him. “Beyond my closest friends, I’ve paid very little attention to society for the past few years. Granted, my mother pushed me to attend all manner of balls and what have you, but I’ve far preferred to keep to myself.”
    There. That explained things subtly enough that she need not feel embarrassment—even if she did. She never wanted to tell him how the manner in which he’d broken things off had humiliated her, how utterly mortifying it had been to hear the whispers at her back.
    Yes, that’s Henrietta Upperton. Poor thing. She was all set to marry Alexander Sanford. A brilliant match for her, since she has little dowry to speak of. Or the beauty to turn a man’s head. That is, until he threw her over and married another. In India, no less. One has to wonder if he left to get away from her.
    She’d heard all that and worse. What girl wouldn’t prefer to stick to a small circle of loyal friends than listen to that sort of talk night after night? And even those close friends had made matches of their own. She’d wished them all well with a smile and a heavy heart.
    Alexander cleared his throat. No apology, just a simple rasp from deep in his chest. Likely all she’d ever hear from him. Not that she needed it. Or him.
    “If you’ll excuse me.” She refused to allow her hurt to show in front of him. What good would it do to let him see? It was past time she got over what he’d done to her.
    How can a rational being be ennobled by any thing that is not obtained by its own exertions?
    She must remember Mary Wollstonecraft’s words. Her engagement to Alexander was not something she’d achieved on her own merit, certainly. He’d worked the matter out with