Free Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) by Baird Wells Page B

must and occasionally for some diversion. Generally, I prefer to stay away. A regiment of men for months on end offers no peace and little privacy. I'm inclined to have both, when able.”
                  She understood perfectly. A single moment off of Paulina's lead was a breath of fresh air. Half an hour alone to write an uncensored letter, a godsend. “Yet here we are,” she finished, studying Spencer.
                  “Meaning?” He was too busy trouncing her to look up.
                  “Meaning you're in company now .”
                  His expression was unreadable save a warmth in his eyes. “And I’ve not a complaint about it.”
                  It was an invitation, to what she had no idea, but every inch of her ached to accept.
                  Alix laid her hand out on the table, palm up without comprehending why; liquor, the moment. Spencer did not hesitate, his warmer, larger one pressing her knuckles into the wood. Like her, he stared at their brushing fingers, joined between the cards. A long moment passed.
                  Spencer cleared his throat and pulled away. “I've bested you.”
                  “What? Oh.” Alix glanced at his discarded hand. “So you have. We didn't lay a wager.”
                  His lips twitched. “I'll name my prize.”
                  Heart pounding clear into her throat, Alix held her breath, both dreading and anticipating his request.
                  “Come with me into the study.”
    “And?” There must be more to it.
    Firm lips twitched, smile escaping at one corner. “Into the study,” he repeated. “I have some letters to attend, and I would appreciate the company.”
                  “Yes.” The word drifted from her lips with the resistance of smoke. Under his spell, she rose from her chair and followed him out, not pausing to question the wisdom or the danger of it.
     
    *              *              *
     
                  No other woman of his acquaintance, not even Laurel, would take off her slippers and stretch out along the sofa as Alix was now. On her back, she held a book above her face, reading and blocking the afternoon sun from her eyes. Spencer offered a moment of thanks for the sofa's placement under a small bank of high windows across the study. There was a sturdy burgundy arm chair against the wall to his left, by a book case, and another planted before his desk. He’d hoped she would choose that one, sitting close enough to make conversation. Now, reclining against the sofa's red velvet, her blue train sweeping the floor and one arm behind her head, he was glad she hadn't. He stole a glance in between sentences, indulging himself the soft planes of her face and the long lines and curves of her body.
    Quill forgotten in-hand, he puzzled over her. Without more than rough exploration, he admitted she had snared him that first night, disarmed him with the same unnamable quality which had first caught his eye. He dared hope, as her soft lines draped with ease along his sofa, that she felt it too.
    Her nose wrinkled up and dashed his sentimental moment.
                  “What are you puzzling at over there?” he demanded, eager for any opportunity to talk with her.
                  Alix sighed and rested the book across her belly. “I want to like this book. I do like it, but I cannot grasp the moral. Is sense superior to sensibility, or is she saying both are necessary?”
                  He was out of his depth. “Does it matter either way?”
                  “I feel it does. Redemption and growth of the characters are both affected.”
                  Wanting to prolong their conversation, Spencer waved his quill at her thick, leather-bound book. “Perhaps she has purposely concealed her motives,