Page 72 of Harpy of the Ton
The study had been transformed. Even the floorboards had been cleaned and polished—he ought to have noticed the faint odor of wax earlier.
What else had she done?
He rose and exited the study, looking—reallylookingfor the first time—at the hallway. The floor had been swept—that pile of rabbit droppings William had brought in was gone—and the windows washed.
Perhaps she’d not been so idle after all.
He tiptoed down the stairs and opened the door to the parlor, wincing as it creaked on its hinges.
The fire was almost out, the dying embers casting a dull orange glow. But even in the fading light he could discern the transformation. The rug beside the sofa now bore a discernible pattern of reds and greens. And the table beneath the window had been polished and bore a cracked vase of pale pink blooms.
Bloody hell—she’d cut his best roses.
But, in doing so, together with everything else she did today, she’d transformed Ivy Cottage into a home.
No wonder she was exhausted.
He crossed the floor and kneeled beside the sleeping woman on the sofa. In the stillness of repose, her expression was that of an angel—serene and beautiful.
You’re a bastard, Lawrence Baxter—do you know that?
“Yes,” he breathed, his gut twisting with guilt. “I’m an utter bastard.”
She stirred, and, unable to fight the impulse, he took her hand. She curled her fingers around his, and his heart ached atthe gesture so simple, yet it conveyed such trust—a wife seeking comfort from her husband.
But he wasn’t her husband. He was the blackguard who’d deceived her.
Better him than that vile man Dunton, who’d seen her as a possession, then saw fit to abandon her, alone and afraid.
You can’t justify your own transgressions merely because they’ve been surpassed by another’s.
Her eyes fluttered open.
“Lawrence.”
His heart ached to hear his name on her lips.
She lifted her head. “Is there something you need? Or—the children?”
She tried to sit, but he placed a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back.
Why must his conscience plague him so? Lady Arabella Ponsford was a harpy. Hehatedher.
Didn’t he?
You don’t hate her. In fact, you…
“No!”
Her eyes widened. “Lawrence, what have I done?”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing you’ve done, Bella. It’s me—I-I’m afraid I’ve not been…” He hesitated. “There’s something I must tell you, Bella. Forgive me, I should have said it before—but I was afraid.”
“Afraid? I can’t imagineyoubeing afraid.”
He lifted her hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles, bracing himself for her rejection. But instead, she curled her fingers around his and smiled.
Sweet heaven—she was beautiful enough in the throes of anger, all fire and passion. But the quiet smile she gave him rendered her breathtaking.
