What a Lady Craves Read Free

deteriorating stone manor combined to draw a myriad of old memories from the recesses of his mind. Not all of them good, either.
    But then, that was the reason he’d gone to India, to recover the financial losses his father had burdened the family with on his death. Alexander had nearly succeeded, too. This was supposed to be his triumphant return to the fold, but instead, he’d arrived on the breast of a storm, his ship breaking to pieces beneath his feet. And his cargo likely at the bottom of the Channel by now.
    That or scavenged. Invariably, on this coastline, when a ship went down, the locals were clever enough to comb the beaches for valuables. Which meant only one thing. If he was to recoup any of his losses, he’d have to get himself out of this bed in the morning and see what he could recover from the local villagers.
    Dear God, and his crew. He must discover what had become of them. Lord, let them be all right. The goods were replaceable; the men weren’t. He’d have to inquire after them, as well. He’d witnessed enough death in India. In coming home, he’d thought to escape the worst.
    He closed his eyes, sending a silent prayer to a deity he wasn’t sure he believed in, whether the Christian God or Vishnu, it hardly mattered.
Please, please let the deaths be over.

Chapter Two
    “Damn him. Damn him to hell.” A sharp gust off the sea ripped the invective from Henrietta’s lips.
    The gray waters of the English Channel hissed over pebbles in an even rhythm that ought to have soothed after a sleepless night. They did nothing for her, nor did a lungful of salt-laden air. Bracing—that’s what they called this sort of predawn cold. It was meant to straighten one’s spine, stiffen one’s upper lip, and urge one forward. But her temper stood firm in the face of the steady headwind off the waves.
    Damn him. Why did he have to come back still possessing the power to devastate her just as when she’d first laid eyes on him? Then, he’d done so with nothing more than his handsome features. Something about his somber expression had reached out and wrapped itself about her heart the night of her coming-out ball. She’d never believed he’d approach her among all the other hopefuls, and yet he had. He’d passed over a beauty like Sophia St. Claire and claimed Henrietta Upperton for a dance.
    She closed her eyes against a memory of him—of Alexander—broad shoulders filling out a stark black topcoat, sand-colored hair falling in careless spiky locks, gray eyes sparking with interest. Unlike his friends, he’d never been a man given to easy smiles, but his square jaw, sharp cheekbones, and sculpted lips had drawn her gaze.
    Then he’d led her to the dance floor and drawn her into a reel. His hand, large and steady every time they clasped, seemed to burn an imprint into her palm. Each separation left her breathless with anticipation for the moment when the dance brought them together again. Was she imagining his fingers lingering a moment too long? The slightest contact seemed magnified. All too soon, the music came to an end, and she had to recover from the sensation of soaring amid the other couples. He bowed low over her hand and promised to call, before leaving her with her mother, and she stood for the next few dances, the ghost of his lips tingling on the back of her hand, and a low pulse thrumming deep in her belly.
    He kept his promise the following day. Before too many weeks had passed, he’d captured her heart.
    No. She would not dwell on the pain that came afterward. But calling a more recent image to mind was hardly better. The intervening years had graven lines at the corners of his eyes and deepened the creases along his forehead. One might read such lines like a book ofsorrows if one was so inclined.
    Not that she was. Oh, no. She would not fall prey to that man once again. She would not allow the desire he’d awakened within her to overcome her reason a second time.
    The beach was strewn