Page 64 of Cold November Rake

But the only pity she could summon was for herself.

Scrutinized by the ton while her husband's mistress mesmerized the theater.

No.

I will not fall into despair that easily.

She had never been a meek little girl hiding behind the closed doors of her home. She had traveled the world with her eccentric aunt. She had returned to London with one goal: to seduce her husband and win back his heart.

She was not going to crumble before a few hundred people thirsty for gossip.

If London wanted a show, she would give them something to see. And she would give her husband something to feel.

She snapped her fan open and leaned toward him, raising it so that its painted silk hid them both from the house. In the sudden privacy of that small space, she was aware of his warmth, the scent of cedar and starch.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"We need to seem absorbed in each other." Her heart was hammering so hard she was sure he must hear it. "Everyone is watching. If we are going to do this, we must do it properly."

He was silent for a moment. His eyes searched hers in the dimness behind the fan. "What do you propose?"

She drew a breath. "Perhaps tonight we might reverse the terms of our agreement."

His brow creased. "Reverse?"

"Yes." She made herself hold his gaze. "In order to comply with your mother's rules, we need to break our own."

"Yes to pretense?" he asked carefully.

Temperance nodded. "Yes to gentleness."

Sutton's gaze dropped to her mouth.

He drew in a breath so slowly she could feel it.

"Yes to kisses," he finished their terms.

"Yes to kisses," Temperance repeated.

Then she leaned in and pressed her lips against his.

Chapter Sixteen

An inn on the road between Florence and Bologna

3rd March 1818

(The innkeeper insists the village has a name. I cannot pronounce it.)

My dear Sutton,

Our coach lost a wheel in a ditch, so I rode the last five miles astride a post horse, in my aunt's second-best riding breeches. I saddled it myself. I do not regret a single mile. I wish you could have seen me.

P.S. Do not tell your mother.

P.P.S. Supper is polenta, cut with a string. The cook would not tell me why a string and not a knife. I suspect there is no reason at all.

Your wife,