A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and carried her to her bed. ’ He sat looking her over in silence for a moment or two, his thoughts revolving around the name and the way it fitted so exquisitely on quite another set of features. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. We were to have breakfast there and return in the evening.
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