Lara Temple - Lord Stanton's Last Mistress

‘I guessed,’ she said simply and slid past him in the manner of a child slipping past a strict parent and he found himself turning as if he could capture her scent as she passed.

This time it was his memory that took precedence, just a flash, a moment from when he had still been caught in the fever of the wound, perhaps the first time he had really been conscious of her, or of her scent. He hadn’t thought of it since, but the memory had somehow remained—like a soap bubble that had formed years ago about the girl’s essence and had only now burst. Wildflowers deep in the woods. At his desk he placed the book on the blotting pad and smoothed unseen wrinkles on the leather binding. It was warm and supple, as leather is after being handled, not surprising if she had been curled up with it in that sunny corner.

Almost as good as my dreams... What a strange thing to say, whether she was that veiled nurse or not. What on earth would she have done if he had asked her to describe those dreams? She might be peculiar, but that would probably have stymied even her. Possibly. Maybe not.

He pushed the book to the edge of the desk. He had work to do before he had to play host to his problematic guests. Whatever she was made no odds. He had a task to complete and that was the sum of his interest in the King’s affairs or employees.

Damn Oswald.

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