Free One Touch of Magic by Amanda Mccabe

not what he expected. It was blighted by women—first by Sarah Iverson, who refused to yield him his rightful place at the Viking village, and now by his silly wife.
    It was infuriating.
    Emmeline, completely unconscious of his stewing thoughts, reached for her gloves, a new smile forming. “Well,” she said, “at least we have met a marquis. It is too bad he won’t be at supper tonight! I can hardly wait until the party at Ransome Hall.”

    Miles sat at his desk in the library at Ransome Hall, reports and plans for the estate spread out before him. But he wasn’t really paying attention to any of that. He leaned back in his chair, watching the red-gold flames dance in the grate, sending light piercing into the dark corners of the vast room.
    The map on the top of the pile detailed the corner where Lady Iverson’s village sat, with notes drawn up by the bailiff. He wrote about soil conditions, possible crops, spots where cottages could be built.
    Cottages to house unfortunate ex-soldiers, like the Lieutenant O’Riley Miles had met in London, and their families. It was a grand plan, one that could combat unemployment and hunger, at least for a few. It was all that he could have wanted to accomplish.
    But all he could see in his mind was Lady Iverson’s face as she showed him the village, the objects so carefully laid out and labeled. Her eyes shone like dark stars, and her wide, mobile, kiss-tempting mouth curved with delight. She loved those dusty fragments as most women loved gowns and jewels. Her tanned, capable little hands were tender as she touched them, and turned them over and over. It made him wonder, beyond all sense, how it would feel if she touched him like that, if she looked at him as she did old soapstone spindles.
    What would it feel like, if she was to care for him even a quarter as much as she did her village? No man could ask for more, for it was very clear how much she did care about her work. It shone from her like an aura.
    They had only known each other for a very short time, yet he liked her, felt drawn to her. How could he take away her work? That would be unconscionably caddish of him, and she would probably never speak to him again.
    But how could he go against his conscience, when he knew how desperately good men needed the jobs his land could bring? He remembered the vast expanse of ropes and pits where she had been digging, stretching as far as the eye could see, across prime farmland.
    Miles buried his face in his hands, pushing back his hair with his fingers. He did not know what to do. Battles and the rigors of camp life on the Peninsula had been simple compared to this. Simple, with no Lady Iverson there, with her dark eyes and bouncing curls to make him forget his duties. He knew what was expected of him there at all times, and what was the right thing to do.
    He missed those days.
    Miles laughed. No man in his right mind should ever prefer a dusty tent to the splendors of Ransome Hall, the advantages of a title! He must be out of his mind!
    He reached for the tiny fragment of ancient chain mail that Lady Iverson gave him, and turned it in the firelight. What Viking warrior had once worn it? Had he been driven mad by a Norwegian woman’s flashing eyes? Had he sailed away in order to escape new and unwelcome emotions? Had he drifted out into the unknown waters?
    For that was what Miles felt he was doing. Floating adrift into something he had never seen before.

Chapter Eight
    Sarah examined the gowns laid out on her bed, trying to decide which one to wear at that night’s supper party at Ransome Hall. Usually, she just wore whichever gown her maid pressed, or the first one she came across in the wardrobe, but today she could not stop dithering like a young miss on her way to her first ball.
    She held up one gown, then another, peering at her reflection in the looking glass. Each dress seemed duller and less fashionable than the last, all of them the grays and lilacs of