“You are brooding,” Aunt Freddy said. “This is why you should have applied yourself to the study of the harp, my dear. If you must be pensive and pale, you could at least look pretty doing it.”

“I am neither pensive nor pale. I’m trying to be considerate when you are clearly too tired for conversation.”

That answer—more snappish than Addy had intended—was proof enough of Aunt’s conjecture to have the old woman smiling.

“This is about Casriel, isn’t it?” Aunt asked. “He’s a fine specimen, and he claims he’ll have my harp ready any day.” Aunt picked up her tea cup and blew on the contents without taking a sip. Her hand trembled slightly, though she didn’t spill.

“If my mood is poor, that’s because the Season has reached the dragging-on-interminably stage,” Addy said, “and I am approaching the anniversary of Roger’s death.”

Aunt set down her tea cup. “My poor lamb, I had forgotten, but then, I’m not exactly consulting my calendar regularly. Perhaps you should go down to Canmore Court for a week or two. Take a respite, spend time with your nieces and nephews.”

Jason and his countess were up to five children. A third healthy little boy had arrived two months ago. They’d named him Roger and asked Addy to be his godmother.

“I will not impose on my in-laws when they have a newborn in the house. Shall I bring you your knitting?”

“You may do a few rows for me,” Aunt said, clearing her throat in the abrupt manner of the elderly. “If you wait until the present Earl of Canmore has no infants in his nursery, you will be nearly as old as I am. Just as the children taper off, the grandchildren start. When that happens, otherwise sensible, mature people lose their remaining wits over a scrap of humanity who weighs no more than a cat.”

Casriel would be like that. A doting father who became an adorable grandfather, wise, kind, full of good stories.

Though he would not be doting on Addy’s grandchildren. She’d seen him standing up for a quadrille with Miss Quinlan, seen the ambition in the young woman’s smiles. Grey’s troubles would soon be over, as would Addy’s affair with him.

She opened Aunt’s workbasket and took out the blue shawl. Nothing had been added to the project since Addy’s last visit, not so much as a single row.

“This will be wonderfully warm come autumn,” Addy said. “Do you have enough of the blue yarn to finish?”

Aunt took a sip of her tea. “Tell me about Casriel.”

Older people could be like this, having trouble following the thread of a conversation. “He’s all that is gracious and good company, and I suspect we’ll hear an announcement regarding his marital prospects before the Season ends.”

She set the needles in motion, trying to quell a growing sense of despair. Her first affair was to have been a lighthearted romp. Not even a stolen pleasure, for widows were expected to romp.

They were entitled to romp, in fact.

“You are supposed to knit six and purl six, Addy. Have you fallen in love with the famous Dorning eyes?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. His lordship and I are friends. Have a biscuit.”

Aunt coughed gently, perhaps to avoid laughing. “Friends don’t stand by and watch as a mésalliance forms beneath their noses, my girl. Casriel would suit you splendidly. He’s settled, is sufficiently well born, and is every inch a gentleman. You are overdue for some gentlemanliness.”

Addy had to go back and count her stitches, for she’d lost track halfway down the row. “Casriel is a gentleman with constrained finances and a strong sense of duty. He’ll marry well.”

“As you married well?”

When had Aunt grown so querulous? “I married far above my station. Too far and at too young an age. Roger was amused with me for a time, but then I failed him in the one aspect of wedlock that mattered to him. Casriel is far kinder than Roger and won’t have unreasonable expectations of his bride.”

He’d expect much of himself, though.

“You are cross. Women in love, contrary to the myths, can be difficult. They tend to fall in love with men, though not always, and therein lies a great deal of aggravation.”

Addy finished the row, though it didn’t look right. “Where did I go wrong here?” She held up the knitting for Aunt to examine.

“You fell in love with a good man,” Aunt said. “The mistake is understandable, but now you must deal with the consequences of your folly.”

Tomorrow was half day. Addy was counting the hours until her next episode of folly. “There can be no consequences, and I have not fallen in love. I know what falling in love is like—I fell in love with Roger. I was giddy at the mention of his name. A glance from him could send me into raptures.”

The raptures Casriel engendered were of a different nature, and every one came wrapped in regret. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Why couldn’t you have met Casriel ten years ago, hmmm? I’ll tell you why. Because, if he’d had the sense to realize what a treasure you are, he would not have allowed himself to offer for you then either. He would have been just as poor, but too convinced of his ability to remedy his finances with sheer hard work. You would not have had the discernment to realize what a treasure he is, because he fiddles with ailing harps, he talks of farming, and he’s mannerly rather than gorgeous and wicked. You have it all backward.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You started off the row purling instead of knitting. Perhaps you should propose to Casriel.”

How did one repair an entire row done incorrectly? “Ladies do not propose to gentlemen, and I have no fortune. Casriel isn’t greedy, but his family looks to him to provide. In five years, when marrying me costs him the ability to dower his Tabitha well, or to keep his brother Sycamore from debtors’ prison, he’d resent me just as bitterly as Roger ever did. Do I take out the whole row?”

And probably ruin the shawl doing so.

“You can, or you can simply start a new pattern. For the next forty-seven rows, begin with the purling, then for the next forty-eight after that switch back to beginning with the knitting. Some of my best projects did not go according to—” Another quiet cough, then a throat-clearing. “According to my plans.”

This lighthearted affair with Casriel was not going at all according to plan. Addy had entrusted him with some of her most bitter memories. She’d fallen asleep in his arms. How often had Roger dozed off after his marital exertions, leaving Addy feeling inexplicably empty and lonely? Casriel had held her. He’d talked to her. He’d listened.

Addy could not bear the thought of him married to some empty-headed twit, not because she was jealous, though she was, but because he deserved better.

And that was the essence of her dilemma. She’d resented Roger’s mistresses and liaisons, then learned to be indifferent to them. Most men of means did not limit themselves to a wife’s attentions. Roger’s passions had been quick to rise and swiftly sated, so how important could those other partners have been to him?

Addy had never worried that Roger was unhappy with those people, never wondered if any of them were taking advantage of him. She’d never fretted that Roger was squandering his time on pursuits that were in some odd way only making him more miserable.

“You should at least have some tea,” Addy said. “You’re not eating enough to keep a bird alive, Fredericka Beauchamp.”

Freddy closed her eyes. “Because it’s time I flew away. I have some money, you know. I’m not leaving it to charity.”

Not this. Not now. “Aunt, you must do with your funds as you please. You always have, and I am fortunate that my means are adequate for my needs.”

“And yet, your life is not adequate. You should go to Canmore Court. Children are always so cheering, and then Casriel would be free to pursue his fortune-hunting with a clear conscience.”

Aunt’s eyes were closed, but that arrow had been aimed with the skill of a master. “He will end matters soon enough.”

“Yes, dear. Of course he will.”

Addy knitted and purled, she let the tea grow cold, and she considered Aunt Freddy’s advice, which had been meant kindly and had been offered from long experience.

Casriel would not end matters. He’d danced with the wallflowers, partnered dowagers in the cardroom, and avoided all but one set’s worth of socializing with either the Arbuckles or Miss Quinlan. If Addy cared for the man, and she did, beyond all sense or explanation, she should end this frolic sooner rather than later.

But not just yet.

Tomorrow was half day. Wonderful, delightful, precious half day, but tonight was a musical evening at Lady Dornley’s. Fortunately, Grey’s hostess did not believe that her guests should have to sit in rows on uncomfortable chairs like schoolchildren serving detention. She’d opened up the public rooms in her house, so guests were free to wander from the buffet under a tent on the terrace to the music room, to the library and parlors.

Addy was not among the guests. He’d looked for her, despite the fanciful notion that he’d feel her presence. Tresham wasn’t in evidence either, though both the Arbuckle twins and Miss Quinlan had greeted Grey effusively.

Why did gentlemen never plead a headache and leave a gathering early? Why could a gentleman never tear a handy hem, never take a bad step on a dance floor or garden path?

Why am I whining?

“My lord, good evening!” Drusilla Arbuckle, for once without her twin, beamed up at him. “Are you enjoying the quartet? They are quite good, I think.”

“Good evening, Miss Arbuckle. The music is most enjoyable. May I escort you to your mother?” The young lady had come upon him on the terrace, where couples and small groups were conversing under torches. The buffet gave off the aromas of cooked meat, and laughter punctuated the music wafting from the house. The evening should have been pleasant, and yet, Miss Arbuckle’s smile foretold Grey’s doom.

I should spend the rest of my evening charming her. I should spend at least half an hour winning her favor. I should be willing to devote fifteen damned minutes to… my future bride?

Even thinking the words sat ill with him.

“Mama had to help Anastasia re-pin a hem. I was to wait for them here in the fresh air.”

An odd choice, but not improper, given the number of people milling about. “I can keep you company. Shall we sit, or would you like to peruse the buffet?”

She wrapped her arm through his. “I’m told her ladyship’s roses are in good form. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

No, we shall not. And yet, what choice did Grey have? He wanted to tear free of Miss Arbuckle and stomp across the terrace, bellowing about tomorrow being half day and a man being entitled to a few happy memories before he sold his soul for a mess of roofing slates.

“I believe the roses are to the left,” he said. Miss Arbuckle was short and her steps small. The pace she set would have upheld the dignity of an exhausted tortoise.

“Do you miss Dorset, my lord?”

No, to his surprise, he did not miss Dorset per se. Dorset was the Land of Leaking Roofs. He missed Addy. He missed having his days to do with as he pleased, provided he was productive. He missed his brothers, but not as much as he ought to. He missed sheets scented with fresh lavender, a wardrobe redolent of cedar, and the perfume of blooming orchards wafting in his window at night.

The whole stink of London was tired and dutiful, but he could hardly say that to Miss Arbuckle.

“I will be home before long. Now is for enjoying good company and the pleasures of the capital. Do you prefer London or the countryside?”

One step down, two steps down. On the third step, Miss Arbuckle stumbled predictably, leaning on Grey for a moment that some finishing governess had doubtless declared would turn a gentleman’s imagination in husbandly directions.

Grey set the lady on her feet and escorted her to the garden walk without further incident.

“I adore the country,” Miss Arbuckle said. “I love the fresh air and the… cows. Cows are lovely, don’t you think?”

When bovines were admired from upwind, Grey had no objection to them. He liked a well-aged cheese and favored a creamy raspberry fool when the berries were in season.

“I own more sheep than cows, and I do have a fondness for the Dorset breeds. Do you like to ride, Miss Arbuckle?”

She peered up at him, her smile faltering. “Ride? Horses, you mean?”

“We spend a lot of time on horseback at Dorning Hall. The tenant farms are flung all over the shire, and though I love a good hike, I also like to accomplish as much as I can in the course of a day.”

“As do I, my lord. I am much enamored of accomplishing… things.”

They had to pause on their progress toward the roses while Miss Arbuckle freed a hem that had snagged on a pot of spent irises.

“How are your brothers, my lord? They must miss you when you’re absent from the family seat.”

Did they? Or did they enjoy having the run of Dorning Hall without Grey barking at them to get their boots off the hassocks?

“They are grown men who can manage without me. We are not the only guests intent on admiring the roses.”

“Roses make me sneeze.”

Then why…? He knew exactly why. Miss Arbuckle was providing him an opportunity to declare himself, to ask her permission to pay his addresses. After a few weeks of that purgatory, he’d ask her papa for leave to court her, though his fate would be sealed by the outcome of this evening’s conversation.

But tomorrow is half day, and I cannot be any sort of husband to you. “Let’s sit by the fountain,” Grey suggested. “The sound alone is pleasant.”

“Oh yes, I do love a quiet fountain. How many of your siblings bide at Dorning Hall, my lord?”

Too many. “Four brothers at present, and a fifth bides with me in Town.”

“That would be Mr. Sycamore Dorning? Or is Mr. Hemlock Dorning biding with you?”

Oh, the symbolism... “Only Sycamore.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord. Sycamore. I have stood up with Mr. Sycamore Dorning. He’s quite graceful. And the others… Chestnut, Maple… I’m making a hash of this, aren’t I?”

Grey handed her onto the bench and took the place one decorous foot to her left, unsure whether to laugh or start splashing in the fountain like Tresham’s mastiff.

“Polite conversation is a challenge,” he said. “This far into the Season, we’ve exhausted the weather as a topic of discussion, and even the scandals have lost our interest. Do you really like country life, Miss Arbuckle? You can be honest with me.”

“I hardly know, but does that matter? My future is not as a land steward on some large estate. Every young lady of quality aspires to be a wife and mama. I’m rather looking forward to the mama part, and the wife part too, of course.”

She was entirely, desperately in earnest.

“You’ve had enough of waltzing and promenading, soirees, musicales, and Venetian breakfasts?”

Water trickled softly, the quartet lilted along in a sprightly major key, and Miss Arbuckle smoothed a gloved hand over her skirts.

“Anastasia likes the social whirl. She always has, and people like her. I don’t mind it, really, but we are twenty years old. Almost every young lady who came out with us is engaged or married, and some have babies. I adore babies. Do you adore babies?”

Grey adored his baby, though she was growing up too quickly. “Your aspirations do you credit, Miss Arbuckle.” Might as well get on with it. “Do you know I have a daughter?”

She nodded, blond ringlets bobbing. “Miss Tabitha Dorning. Mama told us and said we were not to remark it. Many gentlemen sow wild oats, and I’m sure she’s a very sweet young lady.”

Drusilla Arbuckle was a sweet young lady, despite having reached the hoary age of twenty. She deserved better than a man who came sighing to her bed when he dragged himself there at all.

“You are kind to say so,” Grey replied.

What did kindness require of him? Family duty and self-interest demanded that he court Miss Arbuckle’s favor and her fortune. He could not pursue that course in good conscience, and now Miss Arbuckle reminded him that a husband was expected to be a husband.

As if Grey needed reminding of that.

He searched his heart, honestly, for some hint of affection toward the young woman who’d risked her dignity to accost him on the terrace. Could he see a time, a year or two hence perhaps, after a long and cordial courtship, when they might be friends?

But, no. Friends brought to mind Addy, curled on his chest, snoring softly. Friends meant the pleasure of winking at Addy across a crowded parlor, while Drusilla attempted to capture Grey’s attention.

Grey could not be Drusilla Arbuckle’s friend. He could not—heaven defend him—be her husband, but he could be kind to her.

“Might I further prevail on your good nature, Miss Arbuckle? A matter of some delicacy has been on my mind, and you are in a position to offer me good counsel.”

She turned toward him, her gaze both hopeful and wary. “A matter of some delicacy, my lord?”

“We’ve mentioned my brother Sycamore. I am concerned for him.”

She sat up straighter. “He’s a very good-looking young man, sir. Even my mama admits that much. He has the Dorning eyes and cuts quite a dash. Not that you don’t, of course. Cut a dash, that is.”

Grey sent up a prayer for forgiveness. “Sycamore has expressed a fondness for a certain young woman to whom I was considering paying my addresses. I love my brother, but he is as yet an unsuitable parti. He cannot hope to offer for a lady until he’s amassed some means and consequence of his own. You understand why the situation is delicate?”

Miss Arbuckle stared at the silver skeins of water trickling down the side of the fountain. “Your brother might carry a grudge if you offered for the young lady. Anastasia was angry with me for two years because my godmother gave me a kitten and didn’t give Anastasia one. We have different godmothers.”

The string quartet came to a close amid a gentle smattering of applause.

“Marrying the woman for whom my brother bore a tendresse might sting a bit more than being denied a kitten. Young men have such delicate pride, you know. The lady is pretty, gracious, and well dowered. It seems unfair that my suit could prevail while Sycamore must stand silently aside, when—but for the title—he and I are very similarly situated.”

Miss Arbuckle smoothed her gloves up her arms. “Very similarly situated, my lord?”

“Afraid so, unless you consider the leaking pile I call my ancestral home to be a great advantage on my side of the ledger.”

“The roof leaks?”

“Only in the family wing,” he said. “So far.”

Drusilla studied the fountain, she studied her gloves, she scooted on the bench, and then she studied Grey.

“You never said if you like babies, my lord. I understand that your sentiments toward your brother are very… You care for his feelings, which does you much credit, but don’t you want heirs in your nursery?”

She was making a careful choice, which Grey respected. He wasn’t sure he could say the same about his own decisions, but neither could he offer her the marriage she had every right to expect.

“I have raised one child, Miss Arbuckle, or begun raising her, and I have noticed something.” He stood and offered his hand. “Children are expensive. Children are enormously expensive, and my Tabitha hasn’t even had her first Season.”

“Papa would agree with you about the expenses.” She let Grey draw her to her feet. “No babies, then? You aren’t determined to have your heir and spare? Mama said all peers must have an heir of the body.”

And look what that thinking had done to Addy’s marriage. “I have six brothers, Miss Arbuckle, and they are all in good health. One is very happily married. I suspect the others will be as well, and we have paternal cousins. As much effort as I’ve put into maintaining the family seat, for one of my brothers to take on the expense and effort of raising the next Earl of Casriel would be a very great help indeed.”

Her grip on his arm was light, her progress in the direction of the house brisk. “You don’t need an heir. Well. I suppose you should consider Lady Antonia, then, my lord. You’re of an age with her, she’s quite well fixed and a good sort of person. I think you might suit.”

“Lady Antonia?”

“She might even seek a white marriage, though you’re not that old and you aren’t bad looking. Your manners are positively exquisite, but if you truly don’t wish to have children…?”

“I simply don’t see the need. I am one of nine, and I hazard that my papa grumbled about expenses a good deal more than yours does.”

“Papa grumbles incessantly, then Mama grumbles about Papa’s grumbling, and Anastasia gets into a taking about the pair of them, so we must go shopping to settle our nerves.”

Mr. Arbuckle had Grey’s profound sympathies, but then, so did Drusilla. “That is a lot of grumbling among people who care for each other. You see the problem.”

She paused with him at the top of the terrace steps. “Oh, quite. I wish you every success with your situation, my lord, and commend you for considering your brother’s feelings. I don’t suppose he’s among the guests tonight?”

Good for you, Miss Drusilla Arbuckle. Her clarity of purpose relieved Grey’s conscience as well, for she was obviously more attached to her future offspring than to the idea of being Grey’s countess.

“I last saw Sycamore in the blue parlor. He looked a little lonely, a bit out of his element amid all that fine art.” Grey considered adding, We had to sell most of what was collected at Dorning Hall, but that would be an exaggeration—Oak’s paintings far eclipsed the musty landscapes shipped off to the art brokers—also unnecessary.

Miss Arbuckle had already curtseyed and spun on her heel, taking off at a good clip in the direction of the blue parlor.

Grey returned to the bench by the fountain, pleased with the conversation. He’d not quite dissembled, he’d avoided making Miss Arbuckle a very disappointing husband, and he could enjoy tomorrow with Addy as a man unencumbered by any woman’s marital expectations.

And yet, he’d all but sentenced himself to marrying Miss Quinlan. That the union would likely be a white marriage was the smallest and coldest of consolations.

Addy’s belly ached, her head ached, her heart ached worst of all. She opened the front door and stepped back.

“Greetings, my lady.” Grey’s smile was hesitant, as if even he knew that she’d come to a decision. “How are you?”

“I am well.” I am dying inside. “Will you join me in my sitting room?”

“I’d like nothing better.” He followed her up the steps as if their routine was of long, comfortable standing. “I missed you at Lady Dornley’s last evening.”

I miss you all the time. “I’m sure the gathering was pleasant.” Addy was equally sure he’d sat with some Arbuckle or other, or possibly with Miss Quinlan. Maybe more heiresses had entered the lists. Handsome, mannerly earls in search of countesses were not exactly thick on the ground.

“How is your aunt?” Grey asked. “I have finished her harp and am adding the last coats of wax. The instrument is lovely and has a more beautiful tone than I would have thought possible.”

He’d looked right at Addy when delivering that pronouncement.

“Aunt Freddy will be pleased, though she seems to tire easily lately. If anything might revive her spirits, it’s music.”

Grey stood in Addy’s parlor, still holding his hat and walking stick. “I have failed again.” He looked around the room as if to see who had said those words. “With Miss Drusilla Arbuckle. She accosted me…”

He’d failed with Miss Arbuckle?

Addy locked the door and took his hat and walking stick. “Have a seat and explain yourself.”

Grey flipped out his tails and settled in the corner of the sofa, while Addy put his accessories on the sideboard. He did not look like a man who’d failed.

He looked relieved.

“Miss Arbuckle came upon me out of doors, amid the usual crush, and I offered to escort her to the rosebushes. Her intent was simply to get me as alone as a couple can be at such a gathering. Did you know Lady Dornley’s fountain features Cupid nocking his arrow? I found that hilarious.”

Addy took the place beside him. “And yet, you are not laughing.” Neither am I.

He offered his hand, and she took that too. “I have no encumbrances that would prevent me from calling upon you today. That is cause for rejoicing. In the course of my discussion with Miss Arbuckle, she expressed a great fondness for babies and assumed that as a peer without legitimate male issue, filling my nursery would be a priority for me.

“I could not…” He paused to kiss Addy’s knuckles. “My lady, I simply could not. Not in pitch darkness, not in two years. Not ever, and I should be roundly pummeled for discussing this with you, of all people. Miss Arbuckle wants and deserves a doting husband. She will be a fierce and fine mother, but I simply could not see… She deserves more than I have to offer her, and I am a fool.”

Addy was a fool too, for she beamed at her guest. “You did the honorable thing, Grey. How can that be foolish? You and Miss Arbuckle would both have been miserable. A whole nursery full of chortling infants can’t compensate for discord between spouses.”

Grey cradled her cheek against his hand. “As my father learned. And an empty nursery can fill a marriage with discord. Your example was instructive, Addy. Thank you for that, or I might be a man paying Miss Arbuckle his addresses today.”

Addy kissed his palm, though his words only confirmed what Aunt had said. Grey would not court anybody in earnest as long as Addy shared intimacies with him.

“Shall I pour the tea?” she asked.

He brushed her hair back from her brow. “Perhaps later.” He remained beside her, holding her hand.

If Addy were sensible, she would explain to him why their affair must end now, before she let him waste another musicale, literary salon, ball, or rout. She instead straddled his lap.

“Lady Canmore, what are you about?”

She’d made him smile. “I am a widow. We are entitled to our diversions.” She kissed him, because she could, because she had to. “Is this a new waistcoat?”

“I’m surprised you noticed.”

“The embroidery is more elaborate than on some of your other waistcoats, though the blue is your predictable favorite. Should we put a sheath in water?”

He reached into his coat pocket and passed her a leather packet. This part of being lovers was not romantic, but Addy treasured Grey for his pragmatism and responsibility.

“I feel very sophisticated,” she said, rising to pour a glass of water at the sideboard, “knowing how this is done.”

“And yet, you still look exactly like my Addy,” Grey said, untying his neckcloth. “Pretty, proper, and charmingly ladylike.”

“Because I am with you.” She dipped the sheath into the water. “Midafternoon intimacies with you and feeling like a lady aren’t mutually exclusive. One can have pleasure and respectability, in the right company.”

Which was confusing. With Roger, every pleasure—every single one—had to bring with it a hint of wickedness, of rebellion. He could not simply make love with his wife. He had to make love with her on the desk in the study behind an unlocked door.

Grey rose, his neckcloth in hand, the first two buttons of his shirt unfastened. “You are pensive today. Would an allemande suit you?”

Relaxed, calm, soothing. With him, of course that would suit her. “What would suit you?”

Without touching her anywhere else, he kissed her. What started out as a delicate tasting became voracious possession, the hearty, robust male roaring forth from beneath his manners and good breeding.

“You suit me,” he said. “I wish to God—”

Addy kissed him rather than hear regrets and dreams that echoed her own. “Take me to bed, Grey. We have now. Let’s make the best of it.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but a gentleman never argued with a lady, and Grey Dorning was a gentleman.

“We will take each other to bed. Shall I undo your hooks?”

“I can manage.”

They had a sort of race, with Grey yanking off his boots and Addy pulling her dress over her head. His waistcoat and stockings went sailing onto the armchair. Her stockings and garters landed atop them. Grey’s shirt followed, then he stood, hands on hips, while Addy debated whether she was brave enough to take off her shift before they’d climbed under the covers.

She would never again have this opportunity with him, never again find an intimate partner who inspired her to feats of courage. She raised the hem of her shift as high as her knees.

Grey wore only his breeches, and while Addy watched, he unbuttoned his falls. The sight of him, tousled, nearly naked, his cock arrowing up along his belly… He crossed his arms, leaned against the bedpost, and waited.

Addy drew her shift higher, to her waist, then over her breasts, then over her head. She tossed the wad of linen onto the pile of clothes and stood naked before her lover.

Grey twirled a finger, and Addy turned, a new feeling blossoming as she slowly pivoted.

This was… He liked looking at her. That was plainly evident. The sight of her aroused him, but also pleased him. With Grey, she could shed every pretense, every precaution and stand before him as God had made her.

For the first time in her life, standing naked before a man felt marvelous. Not wicked, not uncomfortable, but joyous. She liked looking at Grey too, and he obliged by stepping out of his breeches and completing the heap of clothing on the chair.

“I’m not…” Addy wasn’t young. She wasn’t old either, though. “I’m not as…” As firm, trim, round…? Perhaps, but also not as gullible, ignorant, or easily duped. If that was the price of maturity, Addy considered the bargain fair.

“You are perfect,” Grey said, stepping close. “You are lovely and dear, and for the next two hours, you are mine and I am yours, and that is all that matters.”