Free After the Kiss by Karen Ranney Page A

that way.”
    Margaret nodded, but did not comment. Anne seemed to take great delight not only in tragedy, but in the repeating of it. If there was a tale to be told, the woman would be happy to relate it, the more sordid or distressing the better.
    “Dorothy is progressing quite well in her reading,” she said to Sarah. An almost desperate diversion. “I’m sure you are very proud of her.”
    Sarah’s smile broadened in pleasure.
    “Abigail has a great talent in drawing,” Margaret said, turning to Anne. What she did not say to Abigail’s mother was that her daughter was also most unpleasant. If one of the girls began to cry, it was because Abigail had pinched her. If an inkwell spilled, Abigail was the cause. The child also emulated her mother in that she was quick to spread tales, true or not.
    Out of the corner of her eye Margaret saw the coach approaching from the end of the street. She bid farewell to the two women and walked to the inn with a sense of welcome relief.
    Her traveling companions to London were a varied group. Two men dressed as gentlemen, an older lady who smelled of camphor and a young woman and her little boy whose antics were charming for the first hour but grating as the journey went on.
    Margaret wrapped the ends of her shawl around the Journal to further camouflage it. Her hands clasped it tightly as if the secrets contained within its covers would seep out into the air around her if she did not. She smiled at her own whimsy, and concentrated on the view outside the window.
    When Margaret arrived at the Earl of Babidge’s house, she was led to the same room where she and the earl had transacted their business previously. Instead of asking her to wait, however, the manservant simply tapped once and pushed the door open. She entered the library, expecting to see the affable earl.
    A small fire was laid against the early spring chill. A man sat in one of the burgundy wing chairs facing the hearth. At her entrance, he stood and turned. Not the Earl of Babidge after all, but the man who had occupied too many of her thoughts for the past weeks.
    Montraine.
    Her heart seemed to stop and then lunge forward as if making up for its laxity. Even her breath was uneven, coming in short, choppy breaths. She had gotten her wish, then. To see him once again. She’d not thought that the sight of him would be so startling, however.
    She had thought him captivating in moonlight. It was nothing to how he appeared now in the light of day.
    Beautiful.
    What a silly word to use in conjunction with a man like him. Yet handsome seemed too feeble a description to contain his dark good looks. Perhaps she was destined never to think of a word suitable enough.
    “Hello again,” he softly said. “I have been waiting for you.”
    She halted where she was, gripped the book in her arms tightly.
    Had Lucifer been a golden angel, crafted of sunlight and radiance before being cast from heaven? He should, instead, have possessed black hair and sapphire eyes, been blessed with a smile that hinted at wickedness. And graced with a voice that promised sin and absolution in its dark whisper.
    “Were you?” she said shakily. “How did you know I would be here?”
    “Babby is my friend,” he said, “and eager to assist me in finding you.”
    “You looked for me?” How odd that her mouth was dry, and her breath seemed caught in her chest.
    “Oh yes,” he said, walking slowly toward her. “I have. You are a woman of great mystery, Mrs. Esterly. Tell me, does your husband know you’re here?”
    Run, Margaret. Take the Journal and leave this place. This man is a danger. Or a delight .
    “I’m a widow,” she said, her voice more tremulous than she wished.
    “Are you?”
    She nodded, feeling the caution vanish in that instant she looked at him. It faded beneath a greater fascination.
    He met her gaze with his own intent stare. His look was one of speculation and curiosity. She did not fault him for that. She had enough