A Belated Bride
“. . ” said a deep, mocking voice.Arabella closed her eyes. Please, God, not again. She looked down from where she perched on a small steplad- der trying desperately to juggle a hammer, three nails, and a broken shutter outside one of the library windows. Lucien stood below her, dressed for riding, his cravat immaculate, his Hessians gleaming. His arms were crossed over his powerful chest, his head tilted back as he watched her.But his gaze was not fastened on her face. Instead he was openly adm...iring her posterior, which was embarrass- ingly at eye level. Thank goodness she was wearing a thick wool dress and a sturdy coat that had once belonged to Cook. She only wished the coat hung a bit lower.“Perhaps it isn’t a moon, after all,” he murmured, “but the round warm sun, rising in the east.”She fought the temptation to toss her hammer onto his137rock-hard head. Every day for the last week, Lucien would find her engaged in some effort at setting Rosemont to rights, and he would pester her until she gave up her tools and allowed him to finish the task.Actually, pester wasn’t quite the word for his lingering glances and warm touches.MoreLess
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