Undressed (Undone by Love) by Kristina Cook Page B

amusing, not disconcerting. It would have been done in jest; it would not have seemed lascivious or indecent in any way, shape, or form.
    And then her parents’ warning came crashing down on her consciousness . A liar, her father had called Mr. Rosemoor. He’d nearly compromised a barkeep’s wife, for God’s sake, in Covent Garden of all places. Brenna knew enough about London and its environs to know that a respectable gentleman—a viscount’s son—did not wish to be seen patronizing such an establishment. There were enough public houses in London’s fashionable districts to serve men of reputation and character. A gentleman only ventured to such seedy districts as Covent Garden when one was desirous of participating in illegal—or illicit—activities. Brenna could only wonder which it was that had lured Mr. Rosemoor there on the night in question. Considering the way in which the night had ended—with the threat of a duel—she supposed it must have been the latter.
    She scowled, continuing to stroke the cat’s fur . Now that she’d been forbidden to associate with the man, she’d likely never learn the truth, especially if the ton truly preferred gossip to fact, as Mr. Rosemoor had suggested. Perhaps it was for the best, she reminded herself. Scratching the cat beneath the chin, she met Hera’s steady, green gaze. “Perhaps I have let myself grow too fond of Mr. Rosemoor, haven’t I, Hera?”  No sense in that, especially as she planned to return to Glenbroch come autumn. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she valiantly struggled to force away all thoughts of Mr. Rosemoor. Setting Hera on the bed, she rose to fetch her nightclothes from the high bureau in the room’s corner.
    She pulled her chemise over her head and replaced it with a soft, lawn night rail . As she buttoned the tiny pearl buttons at her throat, her mind was involuntarily drawn back to Lord Thomas Sinclair. Just his type, was she? Very well; she would make it her aim to ascertain exactly what his type was, and then fashion herself entirely the opposite.
    Shaking her head, she blew out the candle beside her bed and settled herself under the bedcovers, rubbing her cheek against the soft-as-silk linen . Their own linens back at Glenbroch seemed almost coarse in comparison, yet she’d always found them perfectly acceptable before now.
    With a sigh of frustration, she sat up in bed and looked wistfully toward the window, its drapes drawn tight against the night sky . Throwing back the bedclothes, she leapt up and hurried across the room, where she drew the drapes and secured them back against the silk-covered wall. Soft, silvery moonlight flooded in at once, and Brenna immediately felt a measure soothed. As her eyes drank in the sight of the bright moon and the twinkling stars, the tension she’d felt bunching the muscles behind her neck eased, if only a bit.
    Mr. Rosemoor had appreciated the sky, had listened to her idle talk of the moon and stars with interest . Was he perhaps looking up at the sky himself right now, remembering the words they had shared? Recalling the gentle touch of his hand to her face, as she was? Or did that moment hold far less significance for him than it had for her? For she realized that she had not been able to push him far from her thoughts since that night in Lady Brandon’s garden, try as she might. What was she to do? Forget him. She must. She had no choice but to do so. Even if her parents hadn’t forbidden it, there was no room for him in her life. She was here in London to become acquainted with her true family, and to raise awareness of the Clearances. Nothing more.
    Not removing her gaze from the calming sight beyond the glass, she returned to bed and slid back between the linens, shivering as the fabric skimmed against her bare calves . Hera meowed, then curled herself next to her, the familiar, deep purr filling the room’s silence. With a sigh, Brenna glanced one last time at the open window. No, the