Free The Ravencliff Bride by Dawn Thompson Page A

that would not come directly. “If I may be so bold,” he said at last, “what you said earlier troubles me. It’s hardly prudent to allow my lady to become attached to Nero.”
    “
Allow?
” Nicholas blurted. “How can I not allow it, Mills? How can I deny her a pet to cosset? Think what she’s just come from, what she must have suffered in that place. She has no one—nothing but the shallow arrangement I have offered her. She is lonely. I never anticipated how lonely, and I cannot give her the affection she craves. I want her to be happy here. What harm to let her fuss over Nero if it eases her loss, and her loneliness? I should think it’s a small enough consolation on my part under the circumstances. I have nothing else to offer.”
    “You aren’t thinking clearly, my lord!” the valet said. “What if Dr. Breeden succeeds, and Nero leaves us?”
    “I’ve already warned her of that possibility. If it happens, she will get over it.”
    “And . . . if it doesn’t, my lord?”
    “We shall tread that path when we come to it.”

Six
    Sara woke at first light, even though she’d lain awake until well after midnight in anticipation of a visit from Nero. He did not come, and she awoke disappointed, despite the cheery sunlight streaming in at the window and trapping dust motes that danced along the shaft as though they had a purpose. Nell had crept in, opened the draperies, lit the fire, and crept out again without waking her—a most excellent servant.
    Sara yawned and stretched and dropped her feet over the side of the bed, before it all came trickling back—her confrontation with Nicholas. How would she ever face him at breakfast? She surged to her feet and squared her posture. She would face him all right, and give him exactly what he wanted: a hostess. She would submerge herself into that occupation, not hide in her rooms, sulking in corners. She would treat her residence as employment, and avoid the man as much as possible. That had to be, if she were to keep her sanity, but first she would establish a few ground rules of her own.
    She had already plucked from the armoire a peachcolored muslin frock with a Mechlin lace insert that masked the décolleté, when Nell arrived to help her dress. The dampness had transformed her wavy hair into a mass of tendrils and ringlets, which the abigail fashioned into a high cascade threaded through with peach grosgrain ribbons. After several attempts to tame the tendrils about her face, Nell threw her hands up in defeat. They would have to stay. It didn’t matter. Sara wasn’t trying to impress a husband. She wasn’t a wife, she was an employee—with a unique advantage. It didn’t matter if he approved of her appearance or not. He could hardly sack her.
    Breakfast was informal as usual. She was already seated in the breakfast room, enjoying a plate of Scotch eggs, which were small, hardboiled, and encased in sausage meat, and a serving of baked tomatoes, when Nicholas strode into the room. He greeted her with a bow, and began filling his own plate. He wore no vest or frock coat over his dove-gray pantaloons and Egyptian cotton shirt, though he had tied a flawlessly engineered neck cloth in place. She studied him while his back was turned. How broad his shoulders were, how narrow his waist. The skintight pantaloons tucked into polished Hessians outlined every contour of his lean, well-muscled thighs. They left little to the imagination, but then she hardly had to imagine the physique beneath; she’d seen more than she had any right to see through his gaping dressing gown on her second night in residence. It wasn’t something she was likely to forget. The strong chest, lightly furred with jet-black hair that diminished to a ribbon, arrow-straight down his flat middle, pointing to the shadow of what lay beneath the gaping gown, the glimpse of a corded thigh as he descended the stairs. The mere thought of it made her heart beat a little faster, and shot her cheeks