Free How to Lose a Bride in One Night by Sophie Jordan

eating.”
    “I’m quite full.”
    “That can hardly be the case. You need to regain your strength.” His gaze skimmed her. “You’re wasting away.”
    She stopped herself just short of throwing her wrapped-up pastie at him. “There you are again . . . lavishing me with your charm.” She motioned to herself. “I’m hardly wasting away. I had quite a bit of cushion on me before I fell in the river.”
    “Did you?” His gaze sharpened on her, and she realized her error.
    “I—yes, at least I feel that much is true.”
    He leaned closer. “What else do you ‘feel’?”
    She reached for her lemonade and took another long sip, looking anywhere but at him as her mind feverishly worked, desperate to come up with a viable response.
    Lowering the lemonade, she lifted her gaze to him.
    He stared back expectantly, his handsome face ever impassive—not a hint of emotion seeping through. “What else do you remember?”
    “Nothing.” Beneath his probing gaze, she felt compelled to elaborate. “Nothing yet . I’m certain I will. I’m certain . . .” Once she could stand on her feet again and take herself away, she could claim a sudden full recovery of memory.
    She couldn’t risk telling him her identity until then. Couldn’t risk him returning her to her husband. Annalise’s throat tightened at the prospect of coming face-to-face with Bloodsworth again. Especially in her weakened condition.
    Squaring her shoulders, she held his gaze, commanding herself not to look away. That would be as good as admitting she was lying.
    “I look forward to it,” he murmured. There was just enough of something in his voice—skepticism perhaps—that she arched an eyebrow at him as he took a final bite of his lunch.
    She watched as he leaned back on his elbows and gazed up at the branches swaying above them. She followed his gaze, feeling some of her tension ease away as she enjoyed the afternoon. He must have believed her. He certainly wouldn’t relax beside her on a blanket if he believed her to be a liar.
    “You know,” she began, “I don’t know anything about you, Mr. Crawford. Aside from the fact that you rescue drowned females. Where are you from?”
    Where are you going? What life is it that I’m keeping you from? She resisted the urge to bombard him with these questions. He certainly wouldn’t be so forthcoming to tell her his entire history in one sitting. Not as brusque as he was.
    “I grew up not far from here.” He exhaled. “A village called Winninghamshire. I just left there.”
    “You don’t live there?”
    “No. I was . . . visiting. My parents are gone, but I have a brother left there. And his wife.”
    There was something in his voice. Something he was leaving out. Was it the loss of his parents? Grief for them?
    “And where do you travel now?”
    “I have a residence in London.”
    She studied his profile. A residence in London, but no mention of a profession. He must be a gentleman. Somehow she suspected as much, although he possessed none of the haughty airs of the gentlemen of the ton she’d met over the last year. His clothing was of fine quality but not the height of fashion. His hair was in need of a good trim. The sun-streaked dark blond locks brushed the collar of his brown jacket. It was a pleasure to study him. She recalled that brief smile she had seen. In that moment he had truly been irresistible.
    “Well, what have we here?”
    Owen launched himself into a sitting position before she even fully turned her gaze to the pair of men approaching where they reclined.
    She tensed at the sight of them. They looked like they hadn’t washed in the better part of a year. Their hair was scruffy, matted at the roots, shorn at the ends as if by a knife. The taller of the pair stood at the helm, adjusting his impossibly soiled neck cloth. “Looks like little lovebirds on a picnic.” His grin showed furry, rotting teeth. He looked from his friend back to Owen and Annalise.
    Owen rose