Free The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) by Anne Gracíe Page B

He found himself wanting to share his own sorry tale with this quiet, intense girl as they walked through the fogbound, silent streets. But he restrained himself. He never talked about it with anyone. Especially not a woman.
    She gave him a sidelong glance. “You won’t tell on me to Lady Beatrice or anyone?”
    “No, but I think you should let her know what you’re doing.”
    She shook her head. “I can’t. It would upset her too much. She’d be so hurt to discover I didn’t . . .”
    “Didn’t trust her?”
    She bit her lip. “I know it looks that way, but it’s not like that. I
do
trust her. I know she won’t turn on me as I described, I truly know it, it’s just . . .” She sighed. “I can’t explain it.”
    “You know your fear is both false and illogical, but you fear it anyway.”
    She stopped dead and looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “You do understand,” she breathed, so softly it was almost lost in the fog.
    “Our fears are not always reasonable,” he said quietly, glad of the gloom that hid his expression. They’d reached the laneway that led to the pottery yard. “And so we have reached your destination. Good day, Miss Chance.” He bowed and walked away into the swirling fog.
     • • • 
    D uty was a bitch of a mistress, Freddy Monkton-Coombes reflected.
    If he hadn’t made that blasted promise to Max, he’d keep himself as far away as possible from Damaris Chance. He wouldn’t have this . . . problem.
    Instead, he was forced into her company, day after day. Morning after morning, coming straight from his bed to her company.
    If only she were a widow.
    He much preferred widows.
    He particularly liked widows who had no plans to remarry, who had everything they wanted—security, comfort and the freedom to live their lives as they chose. Heady thing, freedom.
    Every widow whom Freddy had enjoyed a discreet liaison with had wanted nothing from Freddy except himself—his body, his bed skills, a little of his company and nothing else. Perhaps a few gifts, but that was only natural.
    He found it endlessly refreshing.
    It was a little like that with Damaris. She wanted nothing from him—not his wealth, not his prospective title, not even his body, though he was sure he could change her mind about that.
    But she was unmarried, and therefore out-of-bounds.
    If Damaris were a widow . . . His mind skipped down a trail of endless possibilities, delightful possibilities. But no. He put a firm clamp on his imagination. She was forbidden fruit.
    Forbidden fruit was always the tastiest.
    No. He was honor bound to protect her innocence—from himself as much as any other villain.



Chapter Five
    “She was stronger alone.”
    — JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
    D amaris let herself into the pottery works and stripped off her cloak, hat and gloves. What on earth did Freddy Monkton-Coombes think he was doing, turning up before dawn to walk her to work? It was ridiculous, taking a promise to “keep an eye on them” rather too far. He was behaving more like a chaperon than a rake.
    As for his questioning her about her reasons for working, and her intentions for the future, what business of his was it?
    She jammed her cloak on the hook. Hypocrite, urging her to marriage when he had no such intention himself!
    He’d surprised her with that last exchange, though, about fears. She hadn’t expected a man like him to be so perceptive.
    She set out her materials absentmindedly. Why must everyone harp on so about marriage? Oh, they meant well, she knew that, but why couldn’t they just leave it alone, acknowledge that Damaris knew her own mind and the choices open to her.
    Did they think she didn’t
want
to be loved, didn’t want to have someone whose business—no, whose pleasure it would be to take care of her, protect her? And who would let her take care of him and love him in return?
    Did they think she didn’t watch Abby and Max together and
ache
for what they had,