Free The Rusticated Duchess by Elle Q. Sabine Page A

despite her deliberately serene expression. Mr Pitcher and Matthew had—together even—approached her before the evening meal and asked if she’d like to go for a drive on the morrow instead of walking.
    Gloria didn’t want to go for a drive. She wanted to know if a kiss could comfort her instead of terrify her. She wanted to know how his bare hands would react with skin other than her jaw and chin. She wanted to know how much more of that electrified tingling would run down her spine when his lips touched hers more firmly.
    She didn’t want to have to tell him a damn thing in return for the privilege, either. In fact, kissing him again seemed like a much better use of their time together than reliving the sordid story of her marriage, March’s death and the subsequent vindictive gossip, lawsuits and danger.
    Nevertheless, after a late breakfast and some time with her son, Gloria retreated to her bedchamber to think and pace. She had to know if he was interested in kissing her again. She’d never admit how imperative it felt to have that affirmation, though, because it would give him leverage over her—something to reserve until she surrendered all he wished to know. Gloria remembered clearly his demand to be told the particulars of her life, and she had no doubt he was capable of making himself a pest if she couldn’t walk a fine line between enough information to satisfy him and little enough to keep them safe.
    What did one wear on a cold outing with a gentleman?
    Even as she thought the question, Gloria’s answer seemed obvious. She’d wear her muddy walking boots and the gown with its ruined silk hems, wrap herself up in her black velvet cloak and hood and hope for the best. Gloria would have much preferred walking boots in dark blue and lined with fur, below a walking dress in a hue of vivid sea blue and topped with a dark blue wool overcoat, with fur at the neck and collar. Her head would be covered with a hood of white swansdown and a complementing wool scarf would be wrapped about her neck. But no, she was confined to black weeds, with months still to endure in that dismal colour.
    Gloria tried to envision how to arrange a private rendezvous indoors, but couldn’t conceive of Colman allowing her more than a few bare minutes alone with Clare. She couldn’t call at the castle, even with Mrs Sinclair in tow. Still, she knew it was possible to conduct a secret life under the nose of servants and family. Her mother had managed to do so for decades before Winchester had discovered Johna and Lennox in an unmistakably intimate encounter in the music room at the rear of Winchester House. Surely Gloria could manage two or three assignations before Clare left Killard Castle for his other holdings.
    Exploring with Clare seemed the only way she’d ever know if Abigail’s gentle lectures on the subject months earlier had any truth for her. “If you weren’t disgusted by March’s inconsideration,” Abigail had said kindly when they’d retreated to Gloria’s bedchamber and compared marriages and pregnancy, “you’d feel pleasure when he touched you, so much that you sought out his company. If he cared for you and your happiness, he’d have made sure you weren’t in pain. It can be an amazing experience, and one you’d want to often repeat.”
    Gloria had stared at the bolt on the door and rubbed her expanding womb. “You married a stranger. How do you know?” she finally had asked her sister.
    The expression on Abigail’s face could have lit the room and was enough of an answer. Even so, she’d said quietly, “Meriden may have been a stranger, but he was a stranger who cared about my enjoyment of it more than his own. And now? Now he’s not a stranger, dear. He’s Charles, my dear mate who is more passionate about my happiness and safety than he cares for his own.”
    Gloria had never expected to find out for herself if Abigail was right. It had been enough to be relieved from the unsavoury