The Lady Chosen
The Lady Chosen
“He needed to put it behind him, pretend it hadn’t happened, and stick to his strategy of rescuing the damn woman, then moving on, getting on with the fraught business of finding himself a wife.
The next morning, as he strode up the front path to the door of Number 14, Tristan kept repeating that litany, along with a pointed reminder that an argumentative, willful, trenchantly independent lady of mature years was assuredly not the sort of wife he wanted.
Even if she tasted like ambrosia and felt like paradise in his arms.
How old was she anyway?
Nearing the front porch, he thrust the question out of his mind. If this morning went as he planned, he’d be much better placed to adhere to his strategy.
Pausing at the bottom of the steps, he looked up at the front door. He’d tossed and turned all night, not only with the inevitable effects of that unwise kiss, but even more because, stirred by the earlier events of the night, his conscience wouldn’t settle. Whatever the truth about the “burglar,”
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