Page 117 of The Lyon Whisperer
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.
Sensing victory, she added, “I shall bring my reading material and keep as quiet as a church mouse all the way to Copsham.”
Before setting outwith Amelia for Copsham village, Chase silently vowed he would focus on his work and not the sweet-smelling woman seated across from him.
He’d been so sure his fascination for her would fade after lying with her the first or second or even third time.
He’d been wrong.
He glanced up from the notes he jotted concerning some crop changes he’d like to implement in one of the villages.
Amelia appeared immersed in her novel, a green leather-bound tome titled—he squinted trying to read the gold filigree reflected in the sunlight shafting in from outside.Adeline Mowbray, or Mother and Daughter.
He returned his attention to his work, stretching his legs out before him, as far as the bench would allow.
Amelia emitted a half-strangled moan.
His gaze shot toward her. She held her book before her and read in silence.
Perhaps he’d imagined the—
She drew in a shuddering breath and pressed her fist to her mouth briefly.
As he watched, she made a valiant effort to clear her troubled expression and read on. A single, fat tear coursed down her porcelain cheek.
He gritted his teeth and turned his attention back to the papers in his hand. He might as well have been reading Greek, upside down.Bloody hell.He set the pages aside and shifted his attention to his wife. “Amelia?”
After a brief hesitation, she sent him a questioning look, her mouth curving in her attempt at a smile. “Yes?” Her voice was chipper, but he saw her chin wobble.
He jammed a hand through his hair. He hated women’s tears. Hated the way they used them to manipulate and coerce. Except Amelia wasn’t trying to do anything of the sort. If anything, she wanted Chase not to notice her distress.
“Have I said something to offend you?”
“N-no. Why do you ask?” She sniffled.
He heaved a sigh. “Because you’re crying.”
She drew herself upright. “I most certainly amnotcrying. Please, do not concern yourself. Carry on with your…” She fluttered her fingers in the direction of his satchel and the stacked sheets of foolscap and resumed reading.
He’d thought tears were irritating before.
This sort was downright terrifying. “Amelia,” he said softly. “Something is obviously bothering you.”
She sent him a look of utter misery. “But I promised. No talking. Church mouse.”
“Come here.” He extended one arm to her.
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to interrupt your important work.”
“Come here. I need a break.”
She slanted him a hopeful look. “If you’re sure?”
“I am.” He wanted her near him with an odd ferocity. Odd, because it wasn’t lust, he realized. It was something else, something equally—no, more, compelling. “Please.”
