Read Online The Major's Faux Fiancee by Erica Ridley - Free Book Online
Authors: Erica Ridley
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women throw themselves at him. Her inability to control her body’s reaction to his touch was infuriating. And more than a little intriguing.
What might it be like to be the sort of woman who gave in to such desires? A woman unafraid to throw her reputation to the wind in exchange for a night of passion in his muscular arms? She clutched a pillow to her chest.
Making love with Bartholomew would be incredible, she had no doubt. He would be the sort of lover who would give a woman his complete attention. Make her feel wanted. Needed .
And then he would leave before morning, never to be heard from again.
With a sigh, she shoved Bartholomew and certain heartbreak out of her mind and pushed herself out of bed. There was no time to be maudlin. She had to focus.
She washed her face and her teeth, then settled down before her escritoire. Today was full of risk. Tomorrow, even more uncertain. She had best attend to as much charity work as possible while she still could.
It might be her last chance to leave a mark before she faded into obscurity. Into a loveless marriage. Or Bedlam.
She pushed aside a tall stack of correspondence and perched at the edge of her chair. After luncheon, she’d begged off from playing Charades (Mr. Fairfax’s idea) or battledore and shuttlecock (Mr. Whitfield’s) with the excuse of a megrim. Instead, she’d stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, penning every last outstanding letter until her eyes and fingers ached.
Now all that was left was forming a plan.
Her gaze wandered over the clippings covering her walls. She wasn’t nearly as efficient solving problems as she was finding them. Some days she wished she were a dozen Daphnes, so that she could divvy up her endless chores amongst her many selves and finally be able to cross some things off her lists.
Papa, she knew, would have scolded her much the same way she’d scolded Bartholomew for being bored. Daphne could never do the right thing. If she felt overwhelmed and overworked, ’twas her own fault.
He saw no need to save the world. ’Twas an impossible task. If she focused on her parish, on her neighbors and the other inhabitants of Maidstone, she could make a direct and appreciable difference in the lives of those around her. Just as Papa had done for thirty years.
But she didn’t want to limit herself to Maidstone. Maidstone was fine . They didn’t need her.
Was there truly that much honor in polishing the windows at All Saints Church or helping a happy, well-adjusted parishioner become even happier? Here, she was forgettable. Outside of Kent, she could make a difference. She could be remembered.
The people who needed the most help were the people she couldn’t reach out and touch. The people no one reached out to. The ones whose livelihoods had been ripped away by drought or disease or dangerous working conditions. The people for whom the slightest act of kindness might be the balm that let them live another day.
Only if she was free to do so.
Which meant she could never marry. Not when there were so many worthier subjects to command her attention. Who might give her theirs. And definitely not any gentleman Captain Steele had chosen as a potential suitor.
As for Bartholomew… Handsome, roguish, unforgettable Bartholomew. He was the worst of all possible choices. Now more than ever.
He had no hobbies. No activities. Nothing with which to pass the time.
A bored husband would be the worst kind of all. He’d expect a wife to cleave to him day and night, mutually doing nothing at all, seated side by side in boring marital harmony. While England’s poor struggled and died.
Heaven save her. She could not let that happen. Thank God their betrothal was only make-believe.
Presuming they could convince Captain Steele to sign the contract.
Daphne dipped her quill into the inkwell and wrote Priorities across a sheet of parchment. She bent her head over the sheet of parchment and began organizing her projects by level of
What might it be like to be the sort of woman who gave in to such desires? A woman unafraid to throw her reputation to the wind in exchange for a night of passion in his muscular arms? She clutched a pillow to her chest.
Making love with Bartholomew would be incredible, she had no doubt. He would be the sort of lover who would give a woman his complete attention. Make her feel wanted. Needed .
And then he would leave before morning, never to be heard from again.
With a sigh, she shoved Bartholomew and certain heartbreak out of her mind and pushed herself out of bed. There was no time to be maudlin. She had to focus.
She washed her face and her teeth, then settled down before her escritoire. Today was full of risk. Tomorrow, even more uncertain. She had best attend to as much charity work as possible while she still could.
It might be her last chance to leave a mark before she faded into obscurity. Into a loveless marriage. Or Bedlam.
She pushed aside a tall stack of correspondence and perched at the edge of her chair. After luncheon, she’d begged off from playing Charades (Mr. Fairfax’s idea) or battledore and shuttlecock (Mr. Whitfield’s) with the excuse of a megrim. Instead, she’d stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, penning every last outstanding letter until her eyes and fingers ached.
Now all that was left was forming a plan.
Her gaze wandered over the clippings covering her walls. She wasn’t nearly as efficient solving problems as she was finding them. Some days she wished she were a dozen Daphnes, so that she could divvy up her endless chores amongst her many selves and finally be able to cross some things off her lists.
Papa, she knew, would have scolded her much the same way she’d scolded Bartholomew for being bored. Daphne could never do the right thing. If she felt overwhelmed and overworked, ’twas her own fault.
He saw no need to save the world. ’Twas an impossible task. If she focused on her parish, on her neighbors and the other inhabitants of Maidstone, she could make a direct and appreciable difference in the lives of those around her. Just as Papa had done for thirty years.
But she didn’t want to limit herself to Maidstone. Maidstone was fine . They didn’t need her.
Was there truly that much honor in polishing the windows at All Saints Church or helping a happy, well-adjusted parishioner become even happier? Here, she was forgettable. Outside of Kent, she could make a difference. She could be remembered.
The people who needed the most help were the people she couldn’t reach out and touch. The people no one reached out to. The ones whose livelihoods had been ripped away by drought or disease or dangerous working conditions. The people for whom the slightest act of kindness might be the balm that let them live another day.
Only if she was free to do so.
Which meant she could never marry. Not when there were so many worthier subjects to command her attention. Who might give her theirs. And definitely not any gentleman Captain Steele had chosen as a potential suitor.
As for Bartholomew… Handsome, roguish, unforgettable Bartholomew. He was the worst of all possible choices. Now more than ever.
He had no hobbies. No activities. Nothing with which to pass the time.
A bored husband would be the worst kind of all. He’d expect a wife to cleave to him day and night, mutually doing nothing at all, seated side by side in boring marital harmony. While England’s poor struggled and died.
Heaven save her. She could not let that happen. Thank God their betrothal was only make-believe.
Presuming they could convince Captain Steele to sign the contract.
Daphne dipped her quill into the inkwell and wrote Priorities across a sheet of parchment. She bent her head over the sheet of parchment and began organizing her projects by level of
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