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Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face. ‘I am fascinated. She was carefree. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. She wrapped her legs about his hips as he raised himself upon straight arms, piercing her with his gaze as he thrust into her. You skulk in shadows, following an émigré. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. “Nigel is like all men,” Lady Lescelles continued.
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