Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) by Donna Lea Simpson

her tucked up in the window seat like a naughty child, or so True felt. He bowed, gesturing as though he were swishing a cockaded hat in an elegant motion.
    She stifled a giggle.
    His smile died, and he gestured for her to come down and join him in his restless perambulation.
    No. She could not do that. She was far too fond of him already, in just one day, considering that she had an offer of marriage to think about and decide upon. No good could come of further intimacy between them, no matter how sweet the moments when they had touched had been. Until she knew her own heart and had made up her mind, she must avoid him. She shook her head and turned away from the window, slipping from the window seat, tiptoeing around the bed and sliding under the covers beside her slumbering cousin.
     
    • • •
     
    The ride back to Lea Park the next day was silent and uneventful. Arabella complained fretfully that she did not sleep a single second, and that her bed was musty and lumpy. True did not contradict her, though she was in a position to know from her own sleeplessness that her cousin had slept the entire night, and very deeply if the slight snuffling sound of a ladylike snore was any indication.
    Drake, haggard from another restless night, glanced over at Arabella and said, “Perhaps if you ate your dinner and did not gorge on bread and jam late at night, you would have slept better.”
    Arabella stiffened and shot True an annoyed look. True just shrugged, not sure if she should say that she did not tell his lordship who the bread and jam was for, and that she met him in the hall by accident; no, better to keep that part to herself. It was difficult enough to forget the intimacy of her last encounter with Lord Drake without having to explain it to Arabella.
    “I say, Drake, another unchivalrous comment. If you ever had a way with ladies you have lost it.” Conroy shot him a reproving glance.
    His friend was right yet again, Drake thought. It was unpardonable to take out his peevishness on Miss Swinley, and so he apologized handsomely for his ill-tempered remark and the foursome fell silent. The slight drizzle of the night before was followed by a day of dark clouds and an enervating humidity that made the air feel charged with electricity. Drake felt the weather in his aching leg, which made him even more gloomy.
    It was not Miss Swinley that he was angry with, but himself, he realized. Even though he had puzzled out the plate of bread and jam Miss Becket had been carrying as Miss Swinley’s replacement for the meal she did not eat, and he did find it annoying that she should send her sweet cousin to fetch and carry for her, it was still himself and his own treatment of Miss Becket—Truelove—that was preying on his mind.
    He had taken liberties, and that was likely why she had not come down to walk with him the night before, though she was evidently as sleepless as he. Or it could have simply been that she had no desire to be near him. Why should she? He would not delude himself that the kiss they had shared had meant anything more to her than a puzzling departure from courtesy by a gentleman she barely knew. He had never treated any lady of his acquaintance in that manner, though while in uniform he had had his share of relationships with women of easy virtue that included the more physical aspects of male-female interaction, the giving and taking of passion hopefully enjoyed by both parties. But a lady deserved his restraint.
    He did not understand himself anymore. While still in uniform, he had seemed protected from moodiness by the exigency of his position. He had worked hard, slept soundly, and approached every fresh battle as a situation that required his full attention. Now, with the war over, his commission resigned, he had become as sour as an unripe apple.
    He was never so grateful as when the river and the long lane up to Lea Park came into view. He needed time to think, and he could not do that in