hint of the devil.
Oh, Andrew, what would you think of me now?
The ache went too deep. Replacing the miniature on its stand, she wandered to the balcony. Wan sunlight, a feeble imitation of the fierce peninsular light that had bathed the quarters theyâd shared in a score of different villages, cast a mellow glow. She leaned against the railing, gazing down into the garden below.
When she first returned after years under the Peninsulaâs bright sun and sharp blue skies, sheâd found Londonâs mist, fog and smoke impossibly grim. âTwas as if, she joked to Francesca, the city itself wept at her loss. Then sheâd come upon some pots of lavender at a farmerâs market and set about turning the abandoned, weed-choked lot behind her shop into a replica of a peninsular garden.
Now, pots of herbs surrounded a sundial fashioned from a broken milestone, an old deaconâs bench salvaged from the parish burn pile set invitingly near. Her beloved lavender thrived in the barren, rocky soil around the sundial, its scent, released by the gentle sun, floating up to her.
How the smells of sun-baked earth and herbs brought it backâthe sharp-cut scenery of rock and scrub, narrow gullies and steep ravines. The simple, whitewashed dwellings clinging to hillsides and gazing at the distant azure sea. How sheâd loved to set up her easel on the wide balcony and work furiously to capture the changing light on those hills, that glimmer of ocean.
Sheâd painted Andrew, too, of course, and Rob, his rascal of a brother and fellow soldier, and all their comrades. Canvases of men in uniform relaxing on the balcony, dining about her table or playing an impromptu game of cricket on the village square had begun to crowd her baggage, for when the troops were billeted in towns between engagements, the quarters of Lieutenant Waring-Black and his beautiful bride became a sort of junior officerâs mess. Many an evening had they laughed and played at cards, while Boyd or Matthew sang to Francescaâs guitar.
Melancholy filled Emilyâs chest along with breaths of lavender-spiced air. She loved this little garden, a tangible reminder of the happy sunlit days with Andrew. When accounts did not total, or a tradesman bickered, or some well-born lady puffed up with her own consequence belittled her, Emily would somehow find herself sitting on the bench below. Sheâd run her fingers along the stiff gray wands and inhale the herbâs sharp, cleansing scent. Whenever something troubled her.
Like the thought of the tall, well-formed man returning tonight. Her lover.
Her cheeks burned, her body heated and the thought escaped before she could check it: Iâm sorry.
Donât be an idiot, she told herself crossly. Youâve chosen your course. Thereâs nothing to do but go on and make the best of it. Only children and cowards whine and regret.
She was too honest to deny Cheverleyâs lovemaking brought her intenseâand sorely missedâpleasure. Nor could she deny the idea of receiving his caresses again, soon, sent a spiral of warmth to her very core.
âTwas just her pride that ached, and old memories she should have long since laid to rest. She should view the matter pragmatically, as Francesca suggested.
A businesslike arrangement without long-term or legal complications might suit her very well. And if his lordshipâs ardor lasted until she managed to build her income to such a level of security that she would never again be forced into this position, it would, as Francesca said, be all to the good.
And just what does that make you? a little voice in her head whispered. She turned away from the garden, trying to shut out the ugly word that burned, unspoken, in her ears.
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After leaving Emily in the lightening dawn, Evan sought his bed. Too keyed up to sleep, though, he soon gave up the attempt. From the exasperated look his mama gave him when he left the breakfast
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