SHE AWOKE SOMETIMElater. It must have been near dawn because through the split in the window curtains she could see streaks of mauve filtering through the black horizon. The fire had been stoked and she’d been carefully covered with the blankets. One of her arms was lodged under a makeshift pillow.
––––––––
SHE RUBBED HER FINGERSover the material and realized it was Ethan’s coat. And here she’d been trying to keep him in the valet’s good graces. Exasperating man! No wonder Pocket always looked so aggrieved.
But she couldn’t stay angry with Ethan—not after what they’d shared last night. Her body was still glowing, infused with tingles of pleasure every time she thought of him. Somehow, she’d always known it would be like this with him. She’d had no experience with lovemaking, but from the first time she saw Ethan she knew nothing with him would ever be ordinary. She stretched languorously, her body unconsciously seeking his warm, solid form beside her, but she felt only empty space. Puzzled, she cracked her eyes open once more and scanned the hospital.
It was empty, and she realized she was alone. She sat up and glanced around the room. Lino was curled in the corner near the fire and the bunny was nibbling at the straw in her cage. There was no sign of Ethan. But then, why should she expect him to be here? What reason would he have to stay? It wasn’t as though he loved her.
Tears stung her eyes, and she resolutely dashed them away. She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not ever. She’d vowed not to regret making love with him, and she would keep that vow.
Outside she heard a step on the porch and realized Peter must already be at his station. Het face flushed. She had been out all night. She could only imagine what Peter must think of her, what lay before her when she stood before her parents.
She was a ruined woman now.
Through the window, she saw the sky had turned orange, and the sun was rising. In the distance, the biting November wind whipped the tree branches. Francesca shivered. Only her shivers had nothing to do with the weather.
Twenty-seven
“Francesca!Mia figlia, preziosa! Mi dolce! Mi cuore!”
Ethan stifled a groan. Lady Brigham attacked her startled daughter before Francesca had even stepped through the library door.
Rather than strangle the woman, Ethan shoved his hands in his pockets. Not five minutes before he’d told the viscountess to remain calm when Francesca arrived. The night before he’d had Alex inform Francesca’s parents she was in her hospital, safe and unharmed. It went without saying that he was with her, and the fact that Brigham hadn’t banged down the hospital door in the wee hours of the morning meant the viscount assumed that by the time he heard of his daughter’s whereabouts, the damage had been done.
Upon entering his chamber earlier that morning, Ethan had been greeted by her irate father. Brigham had taken one look at him, strode to the hallway, and called for his pistol.
“If you could oblige me,” Ethan said as he laid his waistcoat on the unused bed, “I prefer a straight shot to the head.”
“Oh, I’ll shoot straight, by God,” Brigham answered him. “But I don’t intend to aim for your head.”
Ethan cringed. “I was afraid of that,” he grumbled. “Would you consider an alternate solution?”
Brigham shut the door. “I’m listening.”
Ethan could all but hear the church wedding bells.
