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“I had hoped for it, yes, but … complications arose.” She recounted the embarrassments of the courtyard behind Garrison’s.

Sarah’s head tilted to the side, then her steel spine melted, and she reached up to her ear to tug on it as her lips twisted to the side.

“Say what is on your mind,” Freddy said. “You know I respect your advice.”

“It is only, Freddy, that … you did kiss him.”

“It produced nothing more than a kiss. Half a kiss, really. He reared away like I was plague-ridden the moment he knew it was me.”

“But he did seem to enjoy the kiss, yes?”

She could not deny that. The abandon with which he’d participated in their embrace until he’d discovered her identity. The way he’d fixated on her lips even after he’d made that discovery.

“Your silence speaks oceans. He enjoyed it. There is hope in that. Perhaps instead of a direct assault, you should try a more measured and patient approach. That bit about the riding lessons might do well.”

It had felt more daring to do it the direct way, but Freddy had never been such a woman. Perhaps a more patient approach would be more … her and thus be more successful. As well, her goal was not to ambush the man, but to take him as a lover. It did not matter how she got into his bed as long as she got there. She missed the intimacy of sharing bodies on heated, silent nights. She missed the pleasure a man could thrum through her. She missed how visible she’d felt when her husband had still loved her like that, still loved her body and her soul. He’d looked at her then as if she were the only answer to the world’s most pressing questions, as if he understood entirely what she wanted and how to give it to her. She’d not been so seen since. Until the damn equestrian had brought her cake and wine. Now she wanted him in her bed, wanted him to see her, truly see her, wanted to leave the shadows for the light.

A patient approach? Might that achieve her goal?

“Perhaps,” she admitted.

“Unless …” Sarah tugged her ear harder, flashed Freddy a sly smile.

“No, Sarah. Not that.”

“I know you don’t like to hear it, but it must be said.”

“Said again, you mean. You’ve said more times than I can count, after all.”

“But you are a marrying sort. The kind of woman who deserves a home, a father for her children, the stability of family, the happiness of the heart.”

She spoke of love, the kind she’d found with her own second husband. Freddy would risk her reputation in the bed of a scoundrel, but she’d never risk her heart again, never risk her daughters’ hearts in the hands of a man who might up and die, might lose interest in her before then, a death of the heart.

She forced breath back into her aching lungs and shook her head. “I will never marry again. I have no desire to be a widow twice over.”

Sarah’s chin pressed toward her chest, and the flames from the fire flickered shadows over her face, hiding her expression. “You loved your husband very much, then?”

“John and I loved one another once. It did not last.” They’d had children, her body had changed, and he’d stopped coming to her bed. Much before that, their feelings had waned though. He’d ceased listening to her, no longer cared to hear her thoughts, and she’d learned to keep them to herself, learned to embrace the shadows. “I suppose we had a … a typical marriage for those of our station. I do not wish to enter into another.”

“Well, then, an affair it is.” Dear Sarah never fussed at you too much, even if she disagreed. “I think, if your aim is still Mr. Webster’s bed, your best avenue to that goal is riding lessons.”

Freddy flinched, bit her lip. “You do not think it crass to use my daughters as an excuse to see a possible paramour?”

“Hm. He’s not your paramour. And they do need riding lessons. And he is the best. And—”

“Very well.” Freddy laughed. “I take your point. I must think on it.”

“Do you think they will be hurt by such a scheme?” Sarah asked.

“I cannot see how. He is lovely with them. And they like him.”

“Harmless, then.”

“Your counsel is always wise, Sarah.” But she was not convinced.

“That is what I’ve found as well.”

They both turned toward the door at the echo of the gruff male voice. Henry Cavendish, Baron Eaden leaned against the frame, his large body eating up the space, his gaze hungry on his wife. He had the gleam of a lazy, sated predator in his eyes and the general look of one as well, his shaggy hair gold threaded with white.