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For more than three years, Garson had dreamed that a lovely woman lay beside him, only to wake to odious reality. During most of that time, the woman had ruler-straight black hair and eyes the color of the Cornish sea. Over the last few days, though, his fantasies had undergone a change in casting.

Devil take him, when had that happened? Suddenly, even through his pounding head, it seemed important to get this straight.

He didn’t mistake his current companion for his lost love. Nor did he imagine that he was dreaming. His wife’s physical presence, warm and drowsing, was too vivid to be anything but real.

His eyes cracked open to darkness, although instinct told him dawn wasn’t far off. Inhaling Jane’s rich scent, he buried his face in her hair. The temptation to take this closeness to the next level rose, along with his unruly dick.

After all, the deal was that if she invited him to her bed, he could claim his husbandly rights. While patches of last night were deuced fuzzy in his recollection, he vaguely remembered her insisting that he joined her.

But his mouth tasted like the floor of a stable, and he badly needed a wash, and he wasn’t sure whether his wife was merely acting the Good Samaritan. Much as he wanted Jane, the risk of shattering the fragile trust they’d built over the last days was unacceptable.

While his conscience mightn’t have woken when he did, it was vocal now. What a bloody fool he’d been last night. He hadn’t been so bosky since his wild days at Oxford. He’d hoped he’d learned more sense since then.

Clearly not.

Half seas over as he still was, he was in no fit state to do Jane justice. After that incendiary and damned frustrating drive yesterday, he’d felt sick with self-pity. One drink in the shabby pub he’d stumbled into near the river had turned into another. And another. Before he knew it, the pub was closing, the world was reeling, and he was staggering home through dark streets to seek his lumpy bed.

Except when he’d got back, Jane had rescued him from his prison cell. More, she’d treated him with a tolerant affection he hadn’t deserved.

She was a jewel among women, his Jane.

Garson should get up, go back to the dressing room, wash, shave, dig out some clothes that didn’t stink of smoke and drink. But his late night weighed on him, it was cozy where he was, and he had his wife in his embrace. He’d get up in a few minutes, but right now he couldn’t summon the will to leave.

She was a luscious bundle, his Jane. Who knew that she’d fit so nicely into the space nex

t to his heart? Who knew that he’d ever think of Jane Norris as his Jane?

*

When Jane woke, it was late and she was alone—and disappointed that she was. A few times during the night she’d stirred, restless to be sharing a bed with someone for the first time. But there was something delightful about having a large male body pressed tight to her back and powerful male arms holding her close. She’d hoped Hugh might wake her with more kisses, like the kisses he’d given her yesterday. She’d even harbored a cowardly wish that events might pursue their course and save her from having to say the words inviting him to take her.

But it seemed if she wanted him, she had to tell him.

She set her hand where he’d lain. Ice cold. He must have been up for a while. She glanced around the room, but nothing hinted that Jane Norris had slept with a man. Even if she remained as pure as ever.

Almost. Heated reminiscence rippled through her, as she recalled the shocking, delightful things Hugh had done in the coach yesterday. Wickedly, she wondered what other marvels her husband could show her.

Obeying a sudden impulse, she rolled over and buried her head in his pillow. Immediately she inhaled Hugh’s rich scent. She’d know that scent anywhere. In the carnal sense, she mightn’t yet be his wife, but somewhere she’d crossed a barrier. He was no longer just her childhood friend, but closer to her than anyone else in the world.

*

Garson’s wife appeared in the doorway, neat as usual, beautiful hair constrained in a formal knot. How his fingers itched to release that glorious mane. He’d only once seen it unbound, on their calamitous wedding night. But even in a parlous state after yesterday’s overindulgence, he feared that if he started with undoing her hair, he’d move to undoing other things. Who knew where they’d end up?

He laid down his newspaper and summoned a smile, even as he winced at the bright light. “Good morning, Jane.”

Sunlight poured through the mullioned windows and added a touch of summer to the pleasant parlor. The light caught russet highlights in her hair, reminding him of the passion concealed under that demure manner. A passion he prayed she’d soon share with him.

He wanted to cross the room and take her in his arms. But he was uncomfortably aware that he’d been less than gallant last night, and some good behavior was called for.

“Good morning, Hugh,” she said with a faint blush. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than I should.” He rose from his armchair and pulled a dining chair out for her. The vestiges of a headache lingered, but several cups of the Red Lion’s strong coffee kept the worst aftereffects at bay. “I’ll ring for breakfast.”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting down.

While the servants set up their meal then left, Garson composed an apology. But before he could speak, Jane gestured toward his full plate with her teacup. “That’s more than I thought you’d want. I expect you have a beast of a head.”

He heard no hint of criticism. “You’re used to seeing the effects of drunkenness?”


Tags: Anna Campbell Dashing Widows Romance