The point was…
Whatwasthe point?
His brother’s bride wasnotattractive.
Most definitely not.
He strode into the library, for the first time craving a strong drink.
Normally, he abhorred alcohol and never drank.
He stalked over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass from the decanter.
The drink did absolutely nothing at all other than burn its way down his throat and churn in his stomach, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth.
Standing in front of the chimney, he stared into the roaring fire.
Pest and pestilence.
He was in serious trouble.
Chapter Three
This Lola—blastit, it wasn’t even her real name but one of Nana’s silly nicknames she’d come up with, just like she’d called him Bastian ever since he’d been in leading strings—anyway, that woman was everywhere.
Everywhere! There was no escaping her presence.
Nor her chaos.
She left a trail of crumbs, pillows, books, shawls, slippers, and crumpled paper in her wake that bordered on the ridiculous.
Once, he’d wanted to sit in front of the fireplace in the armchair, when he found a single stocking trailed over the armrest.
It was pale pink and decidedly feminine.
He picked it up with two fingers and inspected it.
It had a gaping hole in the toe.
The second stocking he found somewhere behind the decorative cushion on the sofa when he’d lain on it for a nap. The blasted thing had peeked out from underneath the pillow.
He found her slippers, one kicked under the table, the other near the window, half-hidden by the curtain. They were soft, made of kidskin. He held one in his hand and marvelled at just how small and narrow her foot was, just like a child’s.
Then he realized she must be running about the house barefoot.
He’d never encountered a female who was so prone to running about with her feet bare.
With a snort, he arranged her slippers neatly by the door and placed the stockings in a neat little pile next to them.
Then, on his way back to the sofa, his foot struck something on the floor.
A paper ball.
He picked it up and unfolded it. It was filled with pencil scribbles in tiny handwriting.
Entirely illegible, but why would that surprise him? Naturally, her handwriting would be illegible.
He squinted at it. …man in motion. Or was it mansion?The full moon emerged from behind the clouds, stroking slowly over her creamy bare throat, gliding over the swell of her bosom, the rapid flutter of her pulse under her skin. She trembled, awaiting his touch, sighing—Good heavens, what was this drivel? It was positively scandalous.
