In the Spinster's Bed Read Free Page A

my lo—I mean, sir.”
    “Thank you.” William stood, and Wilkinson walked with him to the door. “Oh, and one more thing.”
    I shouldn’t say anything. I know I shouldn’t say anything.
    His stupid mouth was forming the words quite independent of his brain.
    “I stopped at the lending library to ask directions, and I swear the librarian—I believe she said her name was Miss Franklin—looked familiar, but I’ve never been to Loves Bridge before. Is she from the village?”
    “No, not originally, but she’s been here about twenty years.”
    Twenty years. So Belle came to Loves Bridge directly from Dornham.
    “She’s the Spinster House spinster.” Wilkinson opened the front door for him.
    William stopped on the threshold. “Pardon?”
    “Oh, right. You wouldn’t know.” Wilkinson shrugged. “The story is rather complicated, but the gist is the village has a house—the Spinster House—that is provided to one dedicated spinster for her lifetime. Or until she marries, I suppose, but as far as I know that has never happened. There is a stipend that comes with the tenancy, so the ladies are quite secure.”
    Good God! Beautiful, passionate Belle has sworn off marriage? Impossible.
    “I see. And you don’t know where Miss, er, Franklin came from?”
    “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I was only a boy when she arrived. My father handled the affair.” He suddenly frowned. “I do remember there was talk, though, when she first came to the village. She stayed with the Widow Conklin, who has”—he flushed—“an unfortunate reputation. But I assure you, no hint of scandal has ever touched Miss Franklin.”
    Conklin. Hmm. That name isn’t familiar. Ah, well.
    “Thank you, Mr. Wilkinson. Please send me word once Luntley’s room is available.” William bowed and set off down the walk. He needed to get back to London and let Morton know his plans.
    He grinned. It looked as if he would have the opportunity to discover Belle’s secrets—and maybe give her a few more.

Chapter Two

    March 10, 1797—I am not a virgin any longer. I was in the folly, reading that scandalous book of Papa’s. It made me feel very bold, so when William came in, I wanted—no, I needed —him to kiss me. And touch me. And do what he did. It was wonderful. Yes, it hurt, but only for a moment. I want to do it again and again.
    —from Belle Frost’s diary

    June 1816
     
    She was going to die of lust.
    Belle sprawled on her back naked in bed, her legs spread, one arm flung over her eyes. It had been almost a month since William had appeared in the lending library. Whatever his business had been, he must have concluded it to his satisfaction because she’d not seen him since—except in her dreams.
    Every bloody night she dreamed of him. And every morning she woke hot and needy. She wanted him in her bed, between her legs, thrusting deep—
    She bit her lip, swallowing a moan. Her breasts ached; her nipples were hard and tight.
    Father was right. I am a wanton.
    She’d had only a few weeks with William twenty years ago, but she remembered everything so clearly: his broad shoulders and chest, his narrow hips, his muscled arms, his hard—
    Stupid! He’s almost forty now. His body must have softened.
    It hadn’t looked soft. Oh, no. Not at all. It had looked hard and strong and quite capable of pleasuring her again.
    And again.
    There was only one way to relieve this madness. She’d learned the trick when William had gone back to Oxford, though she hadn’t used it since she’d come to Loves Bridge. There’d been no need. That part of her had died—or she’d thought it had died.
    William’s appearance had resurrected it.
    She slid her hand down over her heated flesh to the damp, aching spot between her legs. Her fingers found the slick, wet—
    “Merrow.”
    “Aiee!” She bolted upright, jerking the coverlet high to hide her nakedness.
    A black, orange, and white cat stared calmly back at her from the chest of