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Synopsis
But excitement quickly turns to mystery when mere weeks before the festival, an orphaned child turns up in the town—a toddler born near Toulouse to an English mother who left clues that tie her to Reabridge.
With two prominent families feuding for generations and the central event of the Harvest Moon festival looming, tensions rise, and secrets begin to surface.
Nine award winning and bestselling authors have combined their talents to create this engaging and enchanting collection of interrelated tales. Under the Harvest Moon promises an unforgettable read for fans of Regency romance.
Moonlight Wishes and Midnight Kisses by Collette Cameron
A scarred veteran with no future, Courtland Marlow-Westbrook wants to be left alone. Scottish heiress Avery Levingtone never stopped loving him and is determined to win his love again. Will these former sweethearts find happiness together, or will the wounds of the past keep them apart?
The Morning Light by Caroline Warfield
Adam Wagner is meant to save lives, not take them. He is haunted by Waterloo. The horror of it keeps him from those he loves. Meg Barlow doesn’t understand how Adam could turn his back on her so thoroughly, but she isn’t about to let him get away with it.
A Harvest Blessing by Rue Allen
All the battles are over, or are they? When Captain Thom Owen is forced into a false engagement, he must escort his pseudo-fiancée home to meet his father. Can an English vicar’s son and a French Comte’s daughter find love despite their differences?
Coming Home by Mary Lancaster
Old memories, new love
Home from Waterloo, Captain David Buckley contemplates settling down near his home town of Reabridge—only it is full of painful memories. The mysterious Lady Lorna falls literally into his arms, and he begin to understand the true meaning of love and home.
Under the Champagne Moon by Alina K Field
Fleur Hardouin’s heart longs for Captain Gareth Ardleigh, but she needs an advantageous marriage.
Gareth has promised to find Fleur—on behalf of another man.
Now he must choose between honoring a promise and trying to win the hand of the woman he loves.
A Quiet Heart by Elizabeth Ellen Carter
Widowed at Waterloo, where she also nursed the wounded, Veronica Petersham promised a dying man to bring his effects to a family in Reabridge. She falls ill just short of her goal, in the milking shed of kind and stoic Martin Bromelton.
Perhaps there is hope for the future after all and the opportunity to find love once more.
A Love Beyond Time by Sherry Ewing
Eight years ago, Hannah Pownall had her heart broken by a young lord.
Captain Brandon Worthington returns to the town of Reabridge to recover from the war and finds the girl he once loved still unwed. Can love at first sight be reborn after heartbreak, proving a second chance is all you need?
The Widow’s Harvest Hope by Cerise DeLand
The new Earl Barlow returns home from Waterloo, intending to live by his own rules. The woman he loved and lost years ago visits for the Harvest festival—and he plans to offer Vicky Wright what they both want. Can a lady who has lived by the rules throw them all away to seize her last chance for happiness?
Love In Its Season by Jude Knight
The Battle of Waterloo lost Jack Wrath the use of one arm and ended his career in the cavalry. He has no place to go and nothing to offer. Gwen Hughes has a business to run and no time for romance. Under the harvest moon, two people who believe romance has passed them finally reach their season for love.
Release date: October 10, 2023
Publisher: Bluestocking Belles
Print pages: 736
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Under the Harvest Moon: A Bluestocking Belles with Friends collection
Bluestocking Belles
MOONLIGHT WISHES AND MIDNIGHT KISSES
by COLLETTE CAMERON®
Chapter 1
Summer 1815
Beeson Bros Apothecary & Alchemist
Reabridge, Cheshire, England
Gritting his teeth and firming his jaw against the involuntary oath hurtling up his throat, Cortland Marlow-Westbrook eased off the sway-back bay gelding before gingerly unwinding the reins from around what remained of his injured left hand.
In truth, he ought to have waited longer before riding into Reabridge from Northwycke Court, the rundown and neglected Westbrook family estate—his fortress and refuge since arriving in the dead of night by coach a fortnight ago.
He might’ve stayed with any number of Westbrooks—the clan was enormous, warm, and welcoming—but he needed time alone to heal in body, mind, and soul. He’d visited Northwycke Court and Reabridge as a child, and for whatever reason, he sought solace in this solitary, remote place.
Besides, he couldn’t abide his family’s ongoing pity.
The soulful glances and pats on his shoulders and back were meant to encourage but only served to make him feel like a beaten dog. Worse were the women’s perfumed hugs and pecks on the cheek as their eyes shone with sympathy, a sheen of tears, or more often, both.
War truly was hell, leaving memories and scars—physical, mental, and spiritual—which made it impossible to reclaim the person one once was. In point of fact, the arrogant, jovial, determined young man he’d once been, who’d eagerly bought a lieutenant’s commission straightaway after returning from a lengthy tour of the Continent, no longer existed.
What a pompous, immature prig he’d been in those days.
Before leaving for the Iberian Peninsula, Cortland had daydreamed about returning home a decorated war hero. He would marry the vivacious and enchanting Scottish miss who’d stolen his heart—with eyes so blue they competed with the August sky.
As the heir apparent, he’d eventually come into the Elridge earldom, and then he and his beloved countess would start a family and live happily ever after.
Fustian rubbish.
Cortland gave a derisive snort just short of a vulgar curse.
His whimsical fantasy sounded like a bloody fairy tale. Something silly wallflowers tittered on about.
When he’d trotted off to the battlefield in his pristine white and crimson regimentals to make a difference for king and country, naive confidence had shrouded him. A maimed, tormented shadow of his former self had replaced that man.
How swiftly his ideals and resolves had evaporated after four years of ferocious battles and the gruesome aftermaths.
A slightly bitter smile skewing his mouth, Cortland gave a firm shake of his head to dispel the horrific memories. The movement only succeeded in chasing them to a fusty corner where the foul demons crouched, snarling, teeth and claws bared, prepared to attack in another unguarded moment.
As for inheriting the earldom, that life-long expectation had been blown to smithereens.
A half-bitter, half-sardonic chuckle escaped him and earned him a bored swish of the horse’s tail.
Fate had not favored Cortland.
His doddering elderly uncle’s much younger third wife had birthed a male child, eliminating Cortland as the next heir. In truth, the hereditary title was an oddity, as it descended from his mother’s side, not his father’s—unusual in England but not unprecedented.
Never mind that the strapping, healthy babe came wailing into the world two months early. Whispers circulated the upper salons that the new countess had been forced to either accept the elderly Earl of Elridge’s magnanimous marriage offer or face certain ruination. Rumor also had it that the infant’s true father already possessed a wife.
For his part, Uncle Claude strutted around proud as a peacock and pleased as Punch about his heir.
Bully for him.
Uncle had waited decades to become a father. He treated his countess like a queen and his son like a prince. Neither could ask for more adoration and esteem.
In truth, Cortland experienced relief, not disappointment or envy, that he wouldn’t inherit the title. Nevertheless, his new circumstance took a bit of adjusting to; a great deal, truth to tell. For the past two decades, everyone—including me—had anticipated that he’d become the next Earl of Elridge.
More fool him for making no other provision for his future.
One hand resting on the horse’s withers, Cortland tested the weight on his healing left leg.
Holy sh—!
A throaty grunt escaped him as blinding pain lanced him from his booted ankle to knee. But at least he could still walk, albeit with a limp, that might or might not go away in time.
Time.
That was what he needed.
Everyone said so. Fellow soldiers. His family. The doctors—so many doctors. Well-meaning
friends and acquaintances.
Time to forget the plans Cortland had made for his life. Time to recover physically from his wounds. But would there ever be enough time to purge the heinous images stamped upon his sight, embedded in his hearing, and etched in his mind?
Would he ever be able to talk about the atrocities he’d witnessed?
No, no. Not in all of eternity.
When, if ever, would the nightmares cease?
God in heaven, when was the last time he’d slept more than two or three hours straight before an insidious, tormenting recollection had him bolting upright, sobbing and screaming?
Did time heal that?
How could it when hell had seared his soul?
Even the chaplain who’d visited Cortland in the hospital and Reabridge’s vicar, the Reverend Joshua Owen, who’d wasted no time carrying out his spiritual duties by calling upon Cortland at Northwycke Court, had urged him to give himself sufficient time to recuperate.
“Reabridge is precisely the sort of place to convalesce, Mr. Marlow-Westbrook,” the good rector said over his cup of India tea. “God’s own land. Good people.”
However, the vicar seemed pressed for time and hadn’t stayed more than fifteen minutes, revealing that a toddler had been left at the vicarage and a kindly local matron currently watched the child while the vicar made his obligatory rounds.
The man of God also mentioned that the little chap’s sudden appearance had revived the
two-hundred-year-old feud between the Buckleys of Lower Reabridge and owners of the Crown and Castle, and the Pownalls of Upper Reabridge, owners of Book and Bell. The Buckleys and Pownalls speculated another ill-fated romance between members of their families had produced the child.
Until it could be determined if the boy was indeed related to either family, the cleric had decided the church would care for the child rather than place the foundling in an orphanage.
Decent of the vicar.
Orphanages were notoriously ghastly.
Mayhap another family would take the boy in temporarily.
“Naturally, without proof,” the vicar said, nodding his head solemnly, “I cannot in good conscience allow just anyone to lay claim to the lad.”
For the child’s sake, Cortland hoped that he would be placed with someone who would genuinely love him.
Not above sharing a snippet of local gossip before his hasty departure, Mr. Owen had also shared that a local girl had recently disappeared. This had happened more than once over the past decades, he’d advised in an appropriately grave tone. And frequently, a Buckley or Pownall was involved, either as a suspect or a victim.
“Unfortunate that the two families haven’t learned true forgiveness,” he said in a somber and pious tone with his fingers steepled. “Their feuding might’ve ended decades ago had they been willing to put aside pride and animosity.”
In truth, the good vicar rather impressed Cortland with his ability to bring Cortland abreast of local tattle, down two cups of tea, two slices of seed cake, four lady fingers, a ginger biscuit (pocketing six more to take back to the vicarage, supposedly for the foundling) and departing in under a quarter of an hour.
As he crossed the bridge spanning the River Rea, a movement outside the vicarage drew his attention. Holding a wee blond chap’s hand, the vicar waved at several people on or near the charming arched stone bridge before disappearing around the back of the sturdy brick building.
Cortland couldn’t fault the townsfolk for their friendliness.
He glanced at the tidy white rectangle trimmed in pine green declaring this the apothecary shop. A mortar and pestle beneath Beeson Bros Apothecary and Alchemist. Est. 1797 stood out boldly. Tonics and Tinctures curved across the top, and Powders and Potions arched neatly underneath.
He’d taken the last dose of laudanum yesterday—vile stuff—having managed to make
this bottle last almost a month. That was an improvement. Nevertheless, after a sleepless night, tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable and failing, he’d determined to make the trip into Reabridge to procure another bottle.
Or a tonic, or elixir, or tincture…
Whatever would ease his physical and mental pain.
Hard work would help dispel his misery, but until his leg had completely healed, putting his plans for Northwycke Court into action would have to wait.
The local doctor Paul Wagner had warned Cortland that one could easily become addicted to the laudanum. Cortland well knew that truth. Several officers and soldiers had become dependent on the opiate—their method of coping with the hellish situation that was war.
He only took a small dose as a last resort.
Nevertheless, the doctor wasn’t exactly a model of sobriety himself.
Cortland would dance a jig if the man weren’t half-pished during both his visits. And given Cortland could barely stand upon his game leg, that wasn’t happening any time soon.
If ever.
After each of the physician’s calls, Cortland witnessed him taking a hefty nip from a flask inside his coat pocket before climbing—more like crawling—into his gig and, with a haphazard snap of the reins, trundling on his way.
Regardless, Cortland wouldn’t judge the man.
Who was he to point fingers?
How many men were dead and buried and would never see their loved ones again because he’d followed his superiors’ dubious orders?
Too many, by God.
It took a special human being to dedicate their life to treating the sick, diseased, and infirm. Cortland’s step-cousin, Fletcher Westbrook—one of the Duke of Latham’s adopted sons—had studied to be a doctor. Yet, according to a letter from Father a couple of months ago, Fletcher had
recently given up his practice.
No one knew why.
In any event, Cortland intended to ask for a sleeping draught and reserve the laudanum for the worst nights when the pain was unbearable. Thank God those were decreasing in frequency.
Sweat trickled down his back, and perspiration dampened his upper lip.
Bloody warm day, but then it was summer.
If he weren’t still recovering and didn’t want to risk infection, he’d go for a swim.
A man—hands in his pocket and hat cocked at a jaunty angle—whistled a cheery tune as he strolled by.
Is his name Haskell? Bevan Haskell?
He gave Cortland a friendly nod which Cortland returned.
If he was going to stay in the area—what other choice had he?—Cortland must get to know the locals, if not precisely befriend them. Eventually, he’d require laborers, house servants, stable hands, and a steward. Also, livestock, building and farming equipment, and God only knew what else for the house’s neglected interior.
The house’s refurbishment would have to wait, however.
Renovating the barns and stables took precedence.
It wasn’t as if he had a wife to please, in any event. Or ever would have.
He slapped the dust off his buff-colored pantaloons and, after lifting his hat, swiped his good hand across his forehead before replacing the straw top hat.
The gelding, Sully, flicked his tail and whickered.
“I know, old fellow. You’re not accustomed to being ridden. I promise, soon you’ll do nothing but laze around the meadow all day.”
The horse was one of two kept at the estate, mainly because they were too old to be of use anymore and had been put out to pasture.
Had Cortland not arrived, the horses would’ve lived the remainder of their lives attended
by the lone groom, Lyonel Rankin, who also acted as a man of all work, while aging Vernon Halbert and his corpulent wife, Stella, oversaw the maintenance of the house and vegetable garden.
Were supposed to, that is.
Given the condition of the house, grounds, and outbuildings, the three employees had not earned their wages for years by any stretch of the imagination. It would take months to get the estate in order, which meant a delay in Cortland’s determination to make Northwycke Court profitable.
Gnashing his teeth against the tenacious throbbing in his hand and leg, last week he’d given the trio a choice: promptly change their ways and obtain a work ethic or face immediate dismissal.
There were plenty of locals who’d readily take their places.
They’d chosen the former, earning them a temporary reprieve.
Nevertheless, Cortland wouldn’t blink twice before terminating any of them should they fail to perform their duties with diligence and efficiency. He’d not waste borrowed monies on lazy sluggards.
However, these things couldn’t be rushed. Particularly as he had no experience with farming or running an estate. He’d have to rely upon the big-heartedness and knowledge of others to aid him in this challenging endeavor.
He intended to pay a call on Sherington Manor, introduce himself, and seek any advice George Sherington might be willing to share about farming.
If he didn’t succeed at this venture, Cortland had no idea what he would do.
Chapter 2
A few seconds later—still outside the apothecary
Failure wasn’t an option.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Cortland assured the drowsy horse with a gentle pat as he added acquiring horseflesh, a wagon, and probably a gig or other conveyance to his growing mental list of things to do.
The familial coach and drivers that had delivered him to Northwycke Court had departed the next morn. Though if he’d requested it, his well-meaning family would’ve provided everything he needed.
After securing the reins to a post provided for riders, Cortland entered the apothecary. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior. Medicinal, herbal, and chemical aromas engulfed him all at once—scents similar to the hospital where he’d recuperated for two months, but also different. Less sterile and more earthy and inviting.
Several swaths of lavender and other pungent herbs hung from a rafter, adding to the aromatic atmosphere. A counter with an assortment of products arranged neatly atop took up most of one side of the room, and shelves containing bottles, boxes, and containers of every shape and size dominated the other.
As Cortland advanced into the establishment, his boot heels resonated on the scuffed but well-scrubbed wooden floors. At one end of the tidy shop, a slender woman attired in green and wearing a wide-brimmed straw bonnet, partially blocked by an L-shaped shelf, chatted with a clerk.
Trying to hide his limp, Cortland approached a second clerk.
The man raised kind hazel eyes behind thick wire-rimmed spectacles. “I’m Clayborn Beeson, partial owner of this fine establishment. May I help you, sir?”
“Yes, I require something to help me sleep and a bottle of laudanum.”
With a flick of his practiced gaze, Beeson took Cortland’s measure from head to toe. He gave Cortland a warm smile. “Recently home from the war, are you?”
Was it that obvious?
Twisting his mouth into a wry grin and resting a forearm on the polished countertop, Cortland nodded. “Yes.”
The apothecary gave a sage nod. “You’re not alone. We’ve had several townsfolk returning home of late. Some seemingly unaffected and others…”
He needn’t clarify his meaning.
Many townsfolk never would return.
“Planning on staying in the area long?” Beeson asked conversationally.
“I’m not sure yet. I hope so.” Cortland scratched his jaw, trying not to let the massive amount of work restoring the house and property would take overwhelm him. “Ideally, I’d like to turn Northwycke Court into a profitable enterprise. Crops, sheep, and dairy cattle to start.”
It would take hard work, dedication, and money.
Cortland possessed the first two and a pledge from his family for the third—only as a
loan, at his insistence, until he could pay them back.
Furthermore, someone—he strongly suspected he knew who—bold as brass, grazed their cattle on Northwycke Court lands and had for some time. Now that Cortland had mostly recovered and felt somewhat stronger, he must promptly address that troublesomeness.
Perhaps a visit to the local magistrate was in order as well. To apprise the fellow of the situation in case the trespasser proved bothersome or hostile. He rubbed his chin as was his habit when thinking. Was Sherington still the justice of the peace?
Who was the magistrate?
Yes, a good idea to chat with the magistrate. Tomorrow though.
Cortland’s leg ached bloody awful, and he wanted to ride home the long route to check the fence lines. He suspected Ned Brixxton had removed a section of drystone wall between Northwycke Court lands and his property—the conniving rotter.
Cortland didn’t know the man, but Lyonel insisted Brixxton was the only neighbor with cattle and that the man was an unscrupulous blighter.
“You must be a Westbrook then,” Beeson said over his shoulder as he collected a small umber-colored glass bottle from another shelf behind the polished walnut counter. “Heard someone had opened the house.”
Naturally, in a town this small, everyone knew everyone, every house, every visitor, and all of the local gossip.
“One of the duke’s sons?” asked the apothecary as he carefully measured white powder into another jar.
“No.” Cortland shook his head before resting his chin on his fist. “The Duke of Latham is my first cousin once removed. I’m Cortland Marlow-Westbrook, his cousin Joseph’s eldest.”
A swiftly smothered gasp
from across the store made him glance toward the other clerk and the woman, now completely visible.
No.
Don’t let it be her. Please.
Not Avery Levingtone.
The auburn-haired spitfire, with the slightest Scots accent, Cortland had hoped to make his bride—his countess before everything had gone head over arse in his life, leaving him scarred and without the means to support a family.
But Fate wasn’t smiling kindly upon him today—hadn’t in a very long while.
It was Avery.
Even more impossibly beautiful than he remembered.
Cortland had memorized every precious, delicate, precocious feature. Hadn’t he dreamed of seeing her again for four long years? And at this moment, she stood not more than ten feet away.
A vision in a Pomona green gown, ivory spencer, and bonnet with a flurry of matching silk flowers and ribbons. Even her reticule complemented her fashionable ensemble, as did the pearls at her throat and dangling from her ears.
She was a breath of fresh air, utterly out of place in the fusty shop.
Agony sluiced through him, and he closed his eyes.
How much more pain could he endure?
You’re not a coward, Cortland Andrew Judah Marlow-Westbrook. Nor are you a child. You are eight and twenty—a soldier who has fought the enemy face to face and hand to hand.
Open your blasted eyes!
Forcing his leaden eyelids open, Cortland stared into the familiar sapphire blue, rimmed with ginger-tipped sable lashes. Her gaze frank but wide with surprise, Avery fashioned her pink cupid’s bow mouth into a soft smile.
“Hello, Cortland.”
Chapter 3
Ten unbearable heartbeats later
Beeson’s Apothecary & Alchemist
Hello, Cortland.
Avery had sounded so composed, so calm and collected.
Wonder of wonders.
How could she when a myriad of winged insects fluttered about her tummy, her pulse pelted along like a frightened fox, and her breath came in labored gasps as if she’d just finished the Royal Ascot horserace?
She thought she recognized the deep, melodic timber of Cortland’s voice as he spoke to Clayborn Beeson, and on leaden legs swiveled toward him as if in slow motion. Afraid to believe it was him and terrified that it was, she’d studied his broad back and noticed how he favored his leg as he leaned on the counter.
She tried to convince herself it was only a man who resembled him.
Then Cortland said his name, and a ragged gasp tore past her lips as her knees came unhinged.
It was him.
Why hadn’t her cousin by marriage, Justina, the Duchess of San Sebastian, or Justina’s Scottish husband Baxter, mentioned the Westbrooks owned property in the area?
Probably to protect Avery from further heartache.
Besides, what was the likelihood that in all of England, Cortland would venture to this quaint little glen?
Reabridge wasn’t exactly a mecca of High Society like Bath.
Justina alone was privy to Avery’s secret—that she’d fallen in love with Cortland that first Season.
No man had caught Avery’s interest since, though she had her fair share of suitors—even four decent marriage proposals. Though she suspected the small fortune she’d inherited from her parents might’ve been more of an impetus to marry her than genuine affection.
The number of fortune-hungry dandies seeking wives made her leery.
Regardless, none of her besotted beaux had caused her heart to skip or her knees to unhinge. Nor had they kept her awake at night praying fervently for his safety. Or making girlish wishes on full, silvery moons and dreaming of stolen midnight kisses.
She wasn’t precisely on the shelf at two and twenty, but neither had she any prospects.
Prospects that she was interested in, at least.
Until now, Avery hadn’t minded. However, seeing Cortland brought all those stifled emotions roaring unchecked to the surface again.
He didn’t say a word but stared, his mouth drawn into a taut line, his midnight eyebrows slashed together, and his impossibly dark gaze brimming with disbelief.
And… perhaps something
more?
Please let there be something more.
To give her a sliver of hope that her nonsensical daydreams these past four years that Cortland would return to England, move heaven and earth to find her, explain why he hadn’t written, and declare his undying love hadn’t been in vain.
In the apothecary’s muted light, a myriad of dust specks floating in the air where an intrepid ray of sunshine managed to breach the glass, Cortland’s eyes appeared olive-black. However, Avery remembered that the gold flecks and amber circles around his irises gave the stunning orbs an agate-like appearance in the sun.
Those eyes and his disarming sideways smile had snared her that first night when a terrified, awkward, and reluctant eighteen-year-old Scottish lass had made her haut ton debut. Lord, how she’d loathed the very notion. She’d fought dear Uncle Tobias tooth and nail, poor dear man.
Cortland roved his hungry gaze over her face, a concert of emotions flickering across his rugged features: Astonishment. Incredulity. Delight. Happiness. Unadulterated pleasure.
Oh, yes. Yes!
He was pleased to see her, after all.
It took all of Avery’s willpower and determination not to kick propriety aside and dash across the room and throw her arms around him. To weep in relief and laugh from sheer joy.
Cortland was alive. He was safe. He was home.
He was here.
Right here, in Reabridge.
Her heart and optimism soared skyward like an eagle on the wind, only to plummet like a millstone tossed into the sea a heartbeat later as caution, guardedness, and finally, a banal, unreadable mask settled upon Cortland’s countenance.
He fisted and unfisted his right hand reflexively.
She was wrong. So very, very wrong.
Dreadfully, excruciatingly wrong.
He wasn’t elated to see
her.
In truth, it appeared the exact opposite.
Why aren’t you as thrilled to see me as I am to see you? Avery’s anguished heart cried.
Four years.
Four years since Avery had seen Cortland’s beloved features.
Four wretched, heartrending years without a single word.
Four years of telling herself to move on, to get over him.
One of the Beeson brothers sneezed, but Avery couldn’t tear her attention off Cortland to see which one.
She’d adored Cortland—had written him every week that first year. Pages and pages of anything and everything she thought might interest him and take his mind off the war. But he’d never replied. At first, Avery had been crushed, but as the months passed, she dried her tears, summoned her resiliency, and continued with her life.
Or at least, she’d tried to.
Her heart, however, had remained Cortland’s, even if he didn’t want it and didn’t know it was his.
Would never know because, after all, Avery did have a degree of pride, and self-preservation demanded she raise her parapets and fortifications. She’d trusted Cortland once—blindly and unquestioningly—had eagerly and naively given him her heart and then had the mangled organ callously tossed back at her slippered feet.
Studying him, she tilted her head.
A tinge of pallor edged the angles and contours of his face. Gaunt hollows emphasized his high cheekbones, and purplish shadows formed semi-circles beneath his eyes. His nose, once a straight blade down the middle of his face, now sported a lump and was slightly off-center.
Avery had overheard him ask for a sleeping draught and laudanum.
What had he suffered?
How had he suffered?
Why should she care?
Because even now, when he rejected her again, Avery still loved him.
If she were the maudlin type, she’d retreat to her bedchamber with a book of poetry by Samuel Coleridge or William Cowper. But she was not, and in fact, loathed most poetry. Something else that made her an oddity amongst the ton.
The urge to weep overcame Avery, but she wrested her emotions into submission.
Men detested tears.
Most had no idea what to do with a weeping female.
Cortland had grown sinewy and leaner. His tobacco-brown coat hung loosely on his frame. Nonetheless, his pantaloons revealed long, muscled legs.
At last, Cortland shook himself out of his stupor and offered the slightest bow.
“Miss Levingtone.”
Cold. Clipped. Formal.
Avery pulled her eyebrows together, his steely indifference cutting her to the core—leaving her raw and bleeding.
Blast him.
Obviously, he hadn’t pined over her. ...
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