flirted with the rest of her PrideCounty beaux, Reeve Garrett claimed her undivided notice. Escorted into the dazzling affairs the Glade hosted before the war, she was oblivious to the music, the finery, and the witty conversation of her current partner. She homed in like a bird dog on the scent to the scruffily handsome outcast as he stood outside with the drivers and grooms, sharing liquor out of cornhusk-bound jugs instead of champagne from crystal at Byron Glendower’s side. By his choice. Always by his choice.
She’d catch him watching her as she swayed up the wide stone steps in her hoops and frills, bare shoulders gleaming in the candlelight, her gloved hands curled upon some gentleman’s forearm. And he’d nod, that infuriatingly bland smile a mockery of everything she’d hoped to inspire in him after hours of tedious preparation. She always dressed for him, determined just once to wake the blind devotion she stirred with little effort in every other eligible male in the county. Only Reeve seemed impervious. And how that galled her. How that made her want him all the more.
She felt his heartbeats, hard and strong, where the weight of his arm pressed her to him, and she wondered now, as she’d wondered then, what it would take to make that heart pound like a racehorse’s hooves in the final stretch. He was always so calm, so controlled it made her feel all the more foolish for her giddy lusting. For being unable to forget the thrill of being in his arms after she’d goaded him into teaching her about kissing. But that was before she made her official debut in society
There were times when she believed she’d imagined it all, that he’d never been the least bit interested in her. And then, she’d catch him staring atthe oddest times with a look so hungry, so fierce, it scared as much as it excited. Again, by choice, he hadn’t acted upon what she’d seen in his eyes.
And now, she could not allow him to.
She compromised her every angry word and vow by lingering against him, absorbing the heat, the power, the joy of his nearness. But on a private, selfish level, she didn’t care. She’d wanted to be held like this forever. She’d underestimated his effect on her will. It melted like butter with that first inhalation of wet wool mixed with his own hot, musky scent. She’d berate herself later, but for now, she couldn’t shun the opportunity to bask in pleasures long imagined.
Byron Glendower watched them come up the drive.
He’d been standing at the parlor window for some time, sipping whiskey, indulging in sorrow and uncertain sentiment. He didn’t know what to do about Reeve. He never had.
His one great wish was to create a capable heir for the Glade. A selfish want, that desire of a man to immortalize his achievements by leaving a part of himself behind to attend them. Toward that end, he’d married young, to a delicate creature with whom he’d only a nodding acquaintance. She was of a fine pedigree, bringing the wealth and prestige he needed to carve out a monument to the name Glendower. But after three miscarriages, he began to fear he’d have no one to inherit his dream.
Then he met Abigail Garrett, an attractive widow whose needlework was renowned in Pride County. While arranging for her to outfit his wife for a new season, they began a passionate affair which culminatedin the birth of a son. A fine, strapping son, the kind a man boasted of … or would if it were his legitimate issue. Foolishly, he tried to convince Abigail to relinquish the boy into his care, but the proud woman would have none of that. The best he could do was provide her a cabin upon the Glade’s many acres, a place where he could watch over the boy at a judicious distance.
And then his wife gave birth to a legal heir. A boy. A small, spindly child of continued ill health. A child much like he had been.
The irony of it. The boy every man dreamed of just out of reach. A weak child of uncertain future holding all
She’d catch him watching her as she swayed up the wide stone steps in her hoops and frills, bare shoulders gleaming in the candlelight, her gloved hands curled upon some gentleman’s forearm. And he’d nod, that infuriatingly bland smile a mockery of everything she’d hoped to inspire in him after hours of tedious preparation. She always dressed for him, determined just once to wake the blind devotion she stirred with little effort in every other eligible male in the county. Only Reeve seemed impervious. And how that galled her. How that made her want him all the more.
She felt his heartbeats, hard and strong, where the weight of his arm pressed her to him, and she wondered now, as she’d wondered then, what it would take to make that heart pound like a racehorse’s hooves in the final stretch. He was always so calm, so controlled it made her feel all the more foolish for her giddy lusting. For being unable to forget the thrill of being in his arms after she’d goaded him into teaching her about kissing. But that was before she made her official debut in society
There were times when she believed she’d imagined it all, that he’d never been the least bit interested in her. And then, she’d catch him staring atthe oddest times with a look so hungry, so fierce, it scared as much as it excited. Again, by choice, he hadn’t acted upon what she’d seen in his eyes.
And now, she could not allow him to.
She compromised her every angry word and vow by lingering against him, absorbing the heat, the power, the joy of his nearness. But on a private, selfish level, she didn’t care. She’d wanted to be held like this forever. She’d underestimated his effect on her will. It melted like butter with that first inhalation of wet wool mixed with his own hot, musky scent. She’d berate herself later, but for now, she couldn’t shun the opportunity to bask in pleasures long imagined.
Byron Glendower watched them come up the drive.
He’d been standing at the parlor window for some time, sipping whiskey, indulging in sorrow and uncertain sentiment. He didn’t know what to do about Reeve. He never had.
His one great wish was to create a capable heir for the Glade. A selfish want, that desire of a man to immortalize his achievements by leaving a part of himself behind to attend them. Toward that end, he’d married young, to a delicate creature with whom he’d only a nodding acquaintance. She was of a fine pedigree, bringing the wealth and prestige he needed to carve out a monument to the name Glendower. But after three miscarriages, he began to fear he’d have no one to inherit his dream.
Then he met Abigail Garrett, an attractive widow whose needlework was renowned in Pride County. While arranging for her to outfit his wife for a new season, they began a passionate affair which culminatedin the birth of a son. A fine, strapping son, the kind a man boasted of … or would if it were his legitimate issue. Foolishly, he tried to convince Abigail to relinquish the boy into his care, but the proud woman would have none of that. The best he could do was provide her a cabin upon the Glade’s many acres, a place where he could watch over the boy at a judicious distance.
And then his wife gave birth to a legal heir. A boy. A small, spindly child of continued ill health. A child much like he had been.
The irony of it. The boy every man dreamed of just out of reach. A weak child of uncertain future holding all
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