By Grace Burrowes
Andrew Alexander, Earl of Greymoor, has attempted to run either from thoughts of a boating tragedy that claimed the lives of numerous household, and from an charm to beautiful, petite, Astrid Worthington. He returns to England to discover Astrid widowed, awaiting a toddler, and extra irresistibly appealing to him than ever. while it turns into obvious that Astrid wishes a husband who can maintain her and her unborn baby secure, Andrew needs to come to a decision if previous nightmares will proceed to manage his existence, or if his love for Astrid entitles him to a moment likelihood at happiness–and love.
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Extra info for Andrew: Lord of Despair (Lonely Lords, Book 7)
And when one of the dragons looks me over and so clearly finds me wanting . . Almack’s is the worst of all. The patronesses are positively panting to find something wrong with us trembling mortals. ” “Still, it is a young woman’s best opportunity to meet a future husband. Much of aristocratic Britain gathers in London to mingle. ” Caroline sighed. “Since the purpose of it all is to catch a husband, I still cannot become enthusiastic. I don’t want to marry; I want to move in here with you. Apart from Signore Ferrante’s house, this is the only place I have ever been comfortable.
He was pleased to learn that the girl was no blood relation to Lady Hanscombe. He would rather not have a wife from that mold. “I... ” She flushed and looked at the glossy horses before her. ” Jason cursed his misstep. He wasn’t sure whether she took his remark as a criticism, or merely had no sense of humor; in either event, he had lost any ground he had made. Glancing sideways, he guessed the lovely porcelain skin would always betray her feelings in easy blushes. Unfortunate for her, perhaps, but convenient for him.
That’s a compelling reason but not a good one. ” Caroline Hanscombe raised her tawny head from the lute she was tuning, her deep blue eyes shaded with humorous pleading. While her proportions were pleasing and her movements graceful, she was characterized as “a mere dab of a girl” by more than one critical elder. She forgot her shyness only with close friends or when she was absorbed in music; then her delicate face relaxed to a dreamy, ethereal loveliness. More often, her considerable intelligence and humor were concealed behind the anxious look produced by her stepmother’s continual criticism.