Page 128 of If the Slipper Fits
He ought to be content as the cat who stole the cream. Less than two hours ago, he’d escorted Anna through those woods, into the secret garden beyond. They’d made love. She’d all but agreed to marry him.
The arrival of Lady Wentworth, together with her blithe announcement that he had debauched Anna at a roadside inn, had only cemented his claim on her hand.
Lady Wentworth had, purportedly, cleared the one tangible obstacle to their marriage, namely Anna’s previous marriage to Bolton.
His family approved the chit. Everything was set for a post-haste wedding. Everything was fine. Better than fine.
So why did he feel all he’d ever wanted—and when exactly had Anna become that to him?—slipping through his fingers?
Damn it all to hell. His mind was playing tricks, plain and simple. Anna was, for all practical purposes, his.
His life finally made sense. He’d mended fences with his family, brought home a bride, and, for the first time in his life, he saw a clear path ahead of him. One he’d chosen, rather than stumbled onto—unless he counted finding Anna again.
Calmer now, he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and wandered toward the corner of the portico.
He took in the evergreens separating Chissington Hall from the rest of the world, and blocking his view of the hallowed ground of the riverbank where he'd escaped his reality as a child more times than he could count.
In his mind's eye, he saw the root-knotted grassy knolls where he and Anna had so often tarried as children. Where he'd kissed her that day before she left, never to be seen by him again—until Harrison knocked him face down in the muck.
Little did he know, his would-be rescuer, a woman with exotic, enthralling, and somehow familiar amber eyes would reshape his entire future.
He closed his eyes, and recalled to mind their recent interlude. He could feel her pliant body, hear her excited breathing, even smell her tantalizing scent.
And he was getting hard again. God's teeth, the woman had him well and truly ensnared in a fog of perfect lust. Once he had her in their marital bed, he intended to keep her there a solid week.
He laughed under his breath, opening his eyes and inhaling deeply of the oddly fragrant air. Similar to Anna’s unique scent, come to think of it.
The hair on his nape stirred. The last time he’dimaginedsmelling her perfume…Anticipation flooding his senses, he pivoted on his heel--and found her standing not five feet away.
She stared at him, an inscrutable expression on her face. A gentle breeze riffled her skirts, stirring the soft chestnut tendrils of hair she hadn't yet combed into submission following their lovemaking, and imbuing the air with a fresh wave of her intoxicating scent.
He could pick her out of a crowd, blind-folded. A helpless smile tugged at his lips and he started toward her, needing to close the distance. “How did you leave things? Did you invite Lady Wentworth to stay with us a while, or…?”
“How did you know? About her being my...being related to me?"
He stopped an arm span from her. She had hedged. Rather than answering his question, she’d asked one of her own. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe.
“I’d love to tell you I worked it out before today. Alas, I merely put together a story Harrison told me in passing with all the other oddities--her obvious affection for you, secreting you away, the clothing she acquired for you, the ruby, and finally, showing up here and going on the offensive like someone's angry, well, grandmother.”
He studied her. She had a distracted look, as if she only half-listened.
“You’d have come to the same conclusion eventually,” he said.
She nodded, brows furrowed.
“Are you well? Following the unveiling, so-to-speak? Did she give you any explanation for why she hadn't come forward in the last twenty plus years?”
“She did. It was...is...a lot to take in.”
He waited for her to elaborate.
She didn’t. Instead, her expression grew resolute, as if she braced for opposition.
The feeling of dread he'd talked himself out of moments ago returned with a vengeance. A trickle of sweat coursed down the center of his back, though the temperate breeze on the shady portico belied the summer season.
“You never said how—”
“Lady Wentworth has—”
