Ann Lethbridge - A Lord For The Wallflower Widow

Footsteps retreated and a little later returned. ‘She says you best come in.’

The elderly porter opened the door and stood back. ‘At the end of the hall there.’ He indicated with his thumb. He locked and bolted the door and sat back down at his post.

So much for her safety. The porter needed a swift kick somewhere it would hurt for letting a man visit the lady in the middle of the night.

The door to Mrs Greystoke’s apartment stood ajar, allowing a small bar of light to escape into the corridor. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

She was sitting at the kitchen table facing the door, wearing an old brown woollen dressing gown pulled tight around her form. A heavy rope of brown hair curled over her shoulder and rested on her generous right breast. At her throat, a fragment of lace peeped out from the enveloping gown and skimmed the hollow of her throat. The scrap of frill was a nod to her femininity. And it was the most erotic sight he had ever beheld.

Slowly he raised his gaze to her face. ‘Mrs Greystoke. Good of you to see me at this late hour.’

‘Lord Avery?’

Her voice held a question, though her face was perfectly calm. A calmness she wore like armour to hide her worry. But the tremble in the hand that clutched her robe close gave her away.

He shouldn’t have come. ‘I don’t suppose you would offer me a cup of tea?’

She stared at him for a long moment.

He really should not have come.

She rose from her chair, tall, magnificent, composed. ‘Very well.’

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.