Loving a Lost Lord by Mary Jo Putney Page B

like.”
    â€œYou are altogether lovely,” she said firmly. And that was most certainly the truth.

Chapter Eight
    By the time Adam had pulled on his boots and coat to go outside, Mariah reappeared with a delightfully frivolous bonnet decorated with silk flowers, and a shabby blue shawl. He offered her his arm. “You look enchanting, Miss Clarke.”
    She batted her eyelashes outrageously as she took his arm. “How kind of you, sir. If you’re very, very good, I may eventually allow you to use my proper name.”
    He grinned as he held the door open for her to leave the house. “If it wouldn’t make you feel fast, you may call me Adam.”
    â€œI would never do anything fast, Mr. Clarke,” she said firmly. “I am a most properly brought up young lady, I’ll have you know.”
    â€œNo one could possibly think otherwise,” he assured her. He’d been disappointed— very disappointed—that she had been unwilling to let him make love to her, but now he realized that she was right. They needed courting time to become reacquainted, to rebuild a foundation of affection and companionship. Desire was a fine thing in marriage, but there needed to be more, especially for a woman confronted by a husband who didn’t remember her.
    Not only were they reacquainting themselves, but the make-believe was a delicious game, better than a real game, because the end, their marriage bed, was foreordained. He wished he could remember how her elegantly curved form looked uncluttered by clothing. It was maddening to know that they had been lovers, yet not be able to summon exact memories of her body. Or the taste and feel of her.
    Outside the house, she guided him to the left, the opposite side of the manor house from the stables and other farm buildings. He savored the light warmth of her hand resting on his arm, the sweetly astringent tang of lavender that wafted from her clothing. “I know nothing of fashion, but your delightful bonnet looks like it ought to be fashionable.”
    â€œThank you, sir.” She dropped her exaggerated demureness and chuckled. “I’ve redone this straw bonnet over and over again, so it’s not particularly fashionable. There was seldom money to spare, so I became very good at refreshing gowns and hats with lace or ribbons or flowers.”
    Were all genteel young ladies willing to admit a shortage of funds, or was her directness because they were married? Whatever the reason, her bluntness was refreshing. “Your shawl seems less likely to be accused of being fashionable.”
    She pulled the worn blue garment closer. “Granny Rose knit this for me one Christmas. Whenever I wear it, I can feel her arms around me, so I wear it a great deal.”
    Though her tone was light, he heard the loneliness underneath the words. She’d led an unusual life that had little in common with most well-brought-up young ladies. “Was it hard to be always traveling from one place to another, with no real roots? How did you amuse yourself? I suspect that in some households, the women resented having a girl as pretty as you around.”
    She made a face. “Clever of you to realize that. Everyone enjoyed my father’s presence, since he was such good company. But women often thought I was looking to marry their sons, and a penniless bride would never do.”
    He voiced a thought that had been troubling him. “So you chose a penniless husband? Was I unable to provide a decent home for you?”
    She frowned and looked away, as if unsure how to answer. “You had intelligence and prospects. I was not concerned for our future. You had to leave shortly after we married so it made sense that I stay with my father until you returned.” She made a gesture that included the manor. “Then Hartley happened.”
    â€œHow long were we separated?”
    â€œIt seemed like forever.”
    â€œWhy did I have to leave