Cheryl Holt by More Than Seduction

on the discussion we had last week?”
    Had she! She could barely repress a shudder. “I told you, Willie: I’m flattered that you think so highly of me, but I’m not interested in being wooed.” He scowled so she added, “My decision has nothing to do with you personally. I’m simply satisfied with my situation, and I have no desire to marry again. It would be cruel of me to lead you on.”
    “But it’s not natural for a female to be so self-reliant. So self-supporting. You need a husband’s guiding influence.”
    Several scathing remarks were on the tip of her tongue, but she kept them stuffed inside. If she’d had any fond feelings for him—which she didn’t—his condescending attitude would have drowned them.
    Calming herself, she inhaled a slow breath, held it, let it out. “Thank you for being concerned about my welfare. You’re a dear soul to worry. I appreciate it.”
    Intent on hurrying him along, she sauntered down the walk to his gig. He had to join her or be left standing by himself in the doorway. Prudence was waiting in the passenger seat, quiet and meek as usual, but she was perusing the grounds as though she yearned for the temerity to hop down and stroll about. Willie wouldn’t let her explore or venture inside.
    The few occasions Anne had invited her, Prudence had declined, and Anne was certain that Prudence would be incurring her brother’s wrath if she violated his dictates. Just once, though, Anne wished Prudence would show a little backbone, but then, Prudence had to suffer Willie round-the-clock. It was probably easier to remain tractable.
    After another irritating exchange regarding Anne’s autonomy, the McGees were off, and she lingered in the drive, relieved to see them go. With mixed emotions, she returned to the house. Due to Stephen’s taking up residence, her affairs were in chaos, but how could one man instigate such upheaval?
    She had him swimming three times a day, which disrupted her schedule, and everyone else’s. His privacy and her reputation were paramount, so she’d postponed appointments with her ailing invalids, and she’d had to rebuff many wealthy customers, because she couldn’t have Stephen crossing paths with any of them.
    Camilla Warren, and her unruly friends, had endeavored to cajole admittance, but Kate had sent them packing to Bath, where they had spread tales of their inhospitable welcome, which had induced flagrant conjecturing as to the reasons.
    Rumors abounded that she had an illustrious guest on the premises, the identity varying from an ill Italian countess, to a vacationing American heiress, to the Queen herself. Kate had been to the village, and she’d been peppered with questions from merchants who were wondering if there was anything special they could furnish to make Her Majesty’s stay more enjoyable.
    From the moment Eleanor Chamberlin Dunworthy had pulled into the yard in her fancy coach, Anne had known that she was in for trouble, and she’d been correct. She didn’t regret fostering Stephen; she merely wanted matters to calm, so that she could reestablish some of the routine on which she depended and thrived.
    Stephen was demanding as a newborn babe, his road to recovery bumpy, and he was a terrible patient. Placid one minute, angry the next, he was never content with his progress, and unable to accept defeat or failure. Now that he was determined to mend, he expected instant health.
    She devoted all her energy to him. If she wasn’t helping him in the pool, she was cooking his food. If she wasn’t cooking his food, she was serving it to him. If she wasn’t serving it to him, she was keeping him company.
    When she managed to sneak away, she couldn’t concentrate on any topic but him. She was exhausted, weary, the oil in her lamp scarcely lit, yet she wouldn’t trade her experience.
    His presence made her . . . happy. Yes, that was it. Where before, she’d imagined that she’d had an adequate and pleasant existence, she’d