Cheryl Holt by More Than Seduction Page A

been deluding herself. She hadn’t been happy.
    Something had been missing, and until he’d arrived, she hadn’t recognized it. He made her pine away, had her fretting over what might have been, and what could be, instead of what was, and she couldn’t believe she was imprudent enough to hunger for more than she had. The cards had been dealt at her birth, and she couldn’t alter who or what she was. She’d been a smart girl, had grown up to be a pragmatic woman, and at an early age, she’d resolved never to lament her fate.
    As she’d watched, her mother had faded away, shattered from having loved the wrong man, an aristocrat she couldn’t have wed in a thousand years, and Anne had reaped a valuable lesson.
    She understood her place, had been resigned to her circumstance. But Stephen Chamberlin had transformed her view of the world.
    She wanted to be more than a spinster, wanted a serenity that ran deeper than what could be gleaned from running herown business. The tangible aspects that had sustained her—the walls of her home, the dirt in the yard, the water in the pond—seemed cold comfort.
    Much to her surprise, she wanted a man in her life, and not just any man, but Stephen Chamberlin. The notion was so depressing! Had she learned nothing from her mother’s plight? Had she no better sense?
    He was so far above her, so out of her reach, that he was like an angel in heaven. She could worship him from a distance, but could never have him for her own. Her father’s despicable behavior toward her mother had guaranteed that fact.
    Yet, she aspired to be Stephen’s equal, to meet him on common terms. His sister had hired her to care for him, which created an association of employer and employee, and she chafed at her subservient position, but there was naught to be done.
    She’d agreed to tend him, and she would, but she would have to tamp down on her feelings. Stephen didn’t have a lock on vanity. She was proud, herself, and she wouldn’t evince the slightest hint that she was enamored.
    Marching inside, she filled a bowl with hot water, grabbed some towels, and proceeded to his room. He was on the bed, and he assessed the items on her tray, frowning when he saw that they weren’t food.
    “I’m hungry,” he grumbled.
    “A good sign that you’re recuperating.”
    “I must have something to eat besides gruel. I’m a bloody human being, not a bird!”
    She laughed. “Are we a tad grouchy this morning?”
    “My head’s throbbing.”
    “I’m reducing your amounts of laudanum.” She’d been weaning him off the vile stuff, the liquor too, and she hoped to have him free of them when his sister next visited, though it would be no easy chore.
    “I could use a stiff drink.”
    So could I
, she mused, smiling. It was eleven o’clock. He could try the patience of a saint. “No. You had a dose with breakfast. You shan’t get more for a bit. I’m not about to send you home a drunkard and an opium addict.”
    “I’m neither one,” he huffed.
    “You couldn’t prove it by me.”
    “I can do without them. I’ll show you.”
    “I’m sure you will.”
    “I’m itchy when I don’t take them.”
    “Your body has cravings, but they will abate. Give it some time.”
    “I don’t want to give it some
time
. I want to be cured now.”
    “I realize that.”
    He motioned to her tray. “What have you there?”
    “I plan to cut your hair.”
    “The devil you say!”
    “And you’re going to shave.” He shot her a mutinous look, and she threatened, “Or else
I
will shave you. It’s your choice.”
    “I’m partial to my hair and beard. I’m not ready to lose them.”
    Trophies of his illness?
she speculated.
Or a shield to hide behind?
    She picked up the sharpened razor, flicked her thumb across it. “Don’t argue with a woman who’s about to hold a blade to your throat.”
    “Witch,” he muttered. “Seat me in front of the mirror. I demand to observe every snip.”
    She situated a chair, then