Free Passion Over Time by KyAnn Waters, Natasha Blackthorne, Tarah Scott Page A

look at the door. A folded note appeared in between it and the frame. Frantic knocking ensued. She dashed over. The knocking ceased and the sound of retreating footfalls echoed in the corridor outside. She eased the door open and the letter fell. Down the corridor, a boy scurried away. How had he got past the clerk?
    She bent and picked up the folded paper then closed the door.
    A strong scent of rose and musk rose from the opened note. Beth raised her brows and took in the flourishing, dramatic feminine script.
     
    Since I haven’t seen or heard from you, I think it only fair you let me know if I have fallen out of favor.
                  Your faithful,
               M
     
    Beth’s hand went limp and the note fluttered to the floor.
    I think it only fair you let me know if I have fallen out of favor…
    … if I have fallen out of favor…
    … out of favor…
    The words burnt themselves into her mind.
    She knelt to retrieve the note. A droplet splashed it, blurring the neat feminine script. Another followed it. Then another. She wiped her face on her hem, puzzled at her reaction, at the burning pressure in her heart.
    The letter was hopelessly smeared. She traced what remained of the script.
    Who was M ?
    Did she miss Grey?
    Did she lie awake at night, aching for his weight on her body, his warmth beside her as she slept?
    Guilty at her trespass on another’s private pain, Beth folded the letter. What to do with it? She’d be doing the other woman’s pride no favors by allowing Grey to see it tearstained. On impulse, she ripped it to shreds and ran to the window. There she tossed the bits out the open window and watched them fall like snowflakes to the ground.
    Her throat burned hotter and more tears forced their way to the surface. She pressed her fist to her mouth and swallowed. Mercy, what was wrong with her?
    She never cried.
    Never.
    Not since the last time she cried over Joshua, the night after his wedding.
    That day in the bookseller’s, she hadn’t even considered that Grey might have a lover. A mistress. Someone special, perhaps. How could any man look so utterly alone and desolate if someone cared for him?
    She took a ragged breath.
    Oh God, he was no different than other men. No different. Using women, tossing them aside.
    If you don’t keep your head, in a year, six months or even less, that could be you writing him, begging to know what you have done wrong.
    Six months? Would she ever be so foolish as to give any man a significant period of time in her life? Certainly not! Yet, the unchecked though sent a bolt of pure fear straight into her heart.
    Look at the imprudent dreams that already lurk beneath all your bluster!
    She shook her head, so violently that the chamber still spun when she stopped.
    No, she’d never love Grey. She wasn’t the same starry-eyed girl she’d been with Joshua. She knew better than to fall in love. Joshua, Mr. McConnell, even her unknown father—they had all rejected her. Men were all the same.
    A sane woman never trusted a man. Especially not a gentle man.
    Had she really let herself hope Grey Sexton would be a breed apart? She glanced inward at her sore heart.
    Yes, she supposed she had. Just a little hope. Just the barest spark.
    Goodness, how could her heart betray her, sneaking that bit of fantasy past her better sense?
    She returned to the sideboard for her wineglass and took a deep gulp. She closed her eyes, sighing. Dear God, it burned so divinely. She’d forgotten how wonderful expensive Madeira could be.
    A second glass tasted even better. She carried her glass and the bottle into the bedchamber.
    The large bed brought her current situation to mind again.
    She should leave right now. While it still didn’t matter. A vision of herself, alone night after night in her bed, flashed into her mind. She’d been sleepless and aching with desire, while Joshua lay sated, all snoring and snuggled up to his fresh-faced wife’s bare eighteen-year-old