The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress - Anna Campbell Page 0,1

been exemplary." He stepped closer. "Now it grows late, and we both have a long journey in the morning."

While Cecil headed north, she returned to her humble lodgings in Marylebone to wait out the fortnight before the wedding on Boxing Day. The second week of that period at least offered Gerald’s company, once his school closed for Christmas. But while she loved her son, she wasn’t entirely looking forward to that either. Gerald had only met Cecil once, and he hadn’t liked him. He wouldn’t be slow to make his resentment of his future stepfather felt.

He was too young to understand why his mother gave herself into Cecil’s keeping, and she’d done her best to hide how desperate things were in the Martin household. Selina had so many doubts about her forthcoming marriage, but the tragic truth was that if she didn’t marry Cecil, she might end up on the streets. And if she did, she’d lose Gerald.

So she raised her chin and summoned a smile and battled to ignore how her stomach knotted with revulsion when Cecil kissed her cheek. In their eight weeks of betrothal, he’d never kissed her on the lips. But the reprieve was only temporary. She had no illusions that he’d keep his distance, once his ring was on her finger.

Damp lips skimmed her skin, and the overpowering scent of Pomade de Nerole made her dizzy. He stepped back before she could gag, thank heavens. "Shall I escort you to the staircase?"

She shook her head. "Thank you, but I need to choose a book, or I’ll never sleep. You go ahead, and I’ll see you in a fortnight."

Cecil was leaving early, so they wouldn’t meet in the morning. The prospect of two weeks of freedom both exhilarated and troubled her. Fourteen days without her fiancé shouldn’t feel like she dodged a death sentence. She had to reconcile herself to this marriage, or the years ahead would be too wretched to contemplate.

"Very well. It’s not long now. I know the waiting grows wearisome, but you’ll soon be my wife."

"Yes, Cecil." She hoped he didn’t hear the dullness in her tone.

The heady sensation of freedom had lasted a mere second. Now she was back to sitting inside the condemned woman’s cell, waiting for sentence to be carried out.

Once Cecil left, she moved across to one of the bookcases. Cecil liked women to read improving sermons, full of strictures on obedience and modesty. A spirit of rebellion had her pulling Tom Jones from the shelf.

"That was a remarkable demonstration of unbridled passion, if I ever heard one. When I listened to the two of you making such wanton promises to each other, you put me to the blush. My word, you did."

Oh, no. The deep sardonic drawl made Selina drop the book and whirl around with a horrified gasp. Cold hands reached out of nowhere to wring her stomach with a painful mixture of embarrassment and fear.

What on earth? The room was empty.

Then her glance fell on the solid-backed settle she’d already noticed. "You should rather blush at being exposed as a sneak and an eavesdropper, Lord Bruard," she said, too upset to guard her tongue.

Instead of the apology he owed her, the response was a soft chuckle that played forbidden music up and down her spine. "You recognize my voice. I’m flattered."

"You’re the only Scotsman in the party," she said stiffly, bending to pick up the book. It was a first edition. It deserved better than her flinging it to the floor.

In fact, she was the one blushing. Because while it was true that a trace of the earl’s northern roots was audible in his speech, she didn’t recognize his voice because of his accent. She recognized his voice because ever since she’d arrived at this house, she’d dreamed of him. In her fantasies, that insolent baritone whispered wicked suggestions that turned her nights to fire.

"Cruel beauty. I hoped you’d noticed me, yet now you depress my pretensions."

"I couldn’t miss noticing you," she said in an even icier tone. "You’re notorious."

"I am indeed." He didn’t sound like he considered that any cause for remorse. "Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, Mrs. Martin? For fear my reputation might corrupt your upstanding morals?"

Oh, dear. She had been avoiding him. But the knowledge that he’d noticed her skittishness was somehow threatening.

"There’s nothing wrong with my morals," she said hotly, before she reminded herself that a silent and immediate departure from the library was the wisest path.

"More is the pity."

It