Page 48 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

He drew himself up with dignity. His neckcloth was crumpled where she had pressed against him. There was a crease in his coat where she had clutched at him while he kissed her breasts and made her shudder with ecstasy. He still had a cockstand; she could see it. But he merely gave her a formal little bow, as if he were in the ducal drawing room and she was one of the duchess’s friends.

“I will be going now,” he said. “Thank you for dinner.”

And then he was gone.

Inez let her knees give out and sank to the side of the bed. She shivered and reached for her shift.

She could weep, but she had wept already. Now was the time for something else.

Not rage. That had disappeared. She didn’t hate him. She could never hate him. She had lived with this man for nearly two years, and she knew him to his soul. He fed the stray cats that came to his door, and there was one particular tabby she had found, more than once, making a bed on a cushion in his study while he read and wrote.

He had never once scolded Amaranthe for the food and clothing she gave away, even if it was his money he had contributed to the household funds. He grumbled about the little costermonger spying on him, but he always made sure she went through the kitchens when she left. He paid the street sweeps a ha’penny instead of a farthing, and he regularly invited to dinner his scholarly friends who were looking for posts and going hungry.

How many of his old students called at the house to tell him of their doings, report on their progress, take pride in his pride in them? Joseph Illingworth was a rare, good man and she was utterly, utterly in love with him.

If it were not her he objected to, but merely inexperience, then she required a different approach to seduce him. Inez brewed another cup of Mrs. Truckle’s tea and stood regarding the leavings of dinner.

Then she dressed once more, went to the table, and finished her meal. She was a woman with a mission, and it would be wise to fortify herself for the task ahead.

She was a woman searching for a home, and unless she was very much mistaken, it was him.

All was not lost.

Not yet.