Free Carolyn Jewel by One Starlit Night Page A

him into a stranger, into the Viscount Northword, not a man she’d known nearly her entire life. Not the man who’d been her first lover and her most recent one, but a stranger of terrible consequence.
    She stared at her hand on the top of the chair and forced herself to uncurl her fingers. “I’m not sure there’s much to say.”
    He walked to her dresser so that she had to turn around to face him. He’d stood exactly there dozens of times before. There was no mistaking him for the seventeen-year-old he’d been. He’d grown into all the promise of his maleness and gained an air of command. Both things suited him. “I think we ought to talk, don’t you? Clear the air.” He scratched his head. “Of all that.”
    “Why? I don’t regret it.”
    “Nor I.”
    She couldn’t tell if Crispin was pleased or not and so said nothing.
    He continued. “Please be perfectly clear on that point. I don’t regret what happened either. Even though it ought not to have happened.”
    “I don’t think men regret such encounters.” Force of habit put a lilt in her voice. She wasn’t used to being on edge with Crispin, and here, in her room, their old familiarity seemed especially close.
    “Is that all it was to you?” Of all the items on her dresser, he picked up one of the few new ones to be found. The porcelain pot no bigger than her fist contained as many crocuses as she could fit in it. A crease appeared between his eyebrows. “An encounter.”
    “I’m sorry if that’s inaccurate.” Briefly, she closed her eyes. Her memories of him took on weight, the nights he’d walked here from Wordless under a starlit sky like tonight’s. “I don’t know what it was to you.”
    “We’ll leave it at that, then.” He turned and tilted the pot, watching the play of light over it. He wore a thick gold ring on his first finger, and that, too, was something she did not recognize. In ten years, she’d acquired only two pieces of jewelry: a necklace and a pair of earrings, both a gift from Magnus when she turned twenty-one. Since she’d almost immediately lost one of the earrings, she almost never wore the necklace that matched. “You were not your usual self,” he said in his stranger’s voice. He looked up. “It would not be absurd to suggest I took advantage. I’ll apologize if you need that from me.”
    “No.”
    He leaned against the dresser, still holding the pot of crocuses. “Your favorite flower, are they?”
    “They’ve always reminded me of you.” Too late, she realized how much that gave away. “They bloom every spring in the field between Northword Hill and the Grange. Every spring when Magnus and I were little, I tried to count them whenever we walked up the hill.”
    He gave her a sideways look. “I remember.”
    “There weren’t as many then as there are now. The first spring after you left, the hill was covered with crocuses as far as the eye could see.” She waved a hand. “Not just a few, but a carpet of them. People came all the way from Aubry Sock to see them. I told Magnus to paint it for you. Did he not send it on?”
    “He did. My wife saw it and thought it lovely.” He let out a short breath. “I didn’t know it was from you. I had it framed and gave it to her as a gift.”
    “Did you?”
    “You know Magnus. He’s a gift for choosing an interesting perspective in whatever he paints or draws. She particularly liked that you could see a part of Wordless. I suppose it’s still hanging in her room.” Crispin, slouched against her dresser, set the pot back in its place. He watched her under half-lidded eyes. A lock of his hair, that lovely shade that was not quite blond yet not quite brown either, fell in a crescent slash across his forehead. “It’s a wonder you don’t curse them the way she does.”
    He meant Eleanor. “Never.” She brought her shawl closer around her shoulders and caught the edge of his frown. “Why would I?”
    “I don’t know.” He shrugged and avoided