Gifts of Love Read Online Free Page B

the music.
    Perhaps his intentions, if he had meant what he said about wishing to marry her, should have made his behavior more bearable, but for Antonia that was not so. The bitter hurt that had caused her to end their engagement was still strong in her despite the months that had passed, but even though her mind fiercely refused the very idea of marrying him, both the painful longing of her heart and the powerful desire he had rekindled whispered seductively.
    It had been nearly two years. Perhaps she was no longer a part of his life now. Perhaps he had decided—this time—that he could be content with a wife, and feel no need for a mistress as well. Or perhaps Mrs. Dalton had grown too demanding for his taste, and he had not yet found a replacement for her. And perhaps Antonia could forgive, even forget, the terrible hurt…
    Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.
    Antonia flung herself into a comfortable chair by the fire, absently drawing her dressing gown tighter. The afternoon storm had continued into the night, adding its threatening chill to the cold stone walls and floors. Outside, the wind moaned fretfully, and sleet pelted the windows in a whispery cadence. The mournful sounds were a perfect accompaniment to her miserable mood. Her thoughts chased their own tails, and her feelings remained in a painful tangle.
    Her mother, she knew, would never understand; that was why Antonia had never confided her reason for breaking the engagement. Her own father had kept a mistress; according to gossip, most gentlemen did. Their wives were expected to pretend that such creatures simply did not exist. But Antonia knew herself too well to believe she could be happy in such an arrangement.
    Even worse, he had lied to her. Early in their engagement, with the frankness he had claimed to admire, she had told him that she believed both partners in a marriage should remain faithful. He had agreed with her, saying with equal bluntness that although he had enjoyed several agreeable connections in the past—he was, after all, thirty-three at that time—she was the only woman in his life, and he fully intended that that would remain true.
    That he had been so clearly willing to begin their marriage with a lie had hurt even more than the thought of another woman. It had shattered her trust in him.
    Even now, she didn’t know why she had not told him the truth. Perhaps because she could not bear the thought that he would lie again. And although he had said in the drawing room that he meant to know the truth about their breakup, she didn’t want to tell him. She was afraid he would have some ready answer, and that she would allow herself to believe it even if it was a lie.
    It was nearly midnight, and though the room was reasonably comfortable with the fire blazing, she shivered a bit. She felt so alone. The thought had barely crossed her mind when she became aware of a slight stirring of the air, as if someone had passed near her, and all her senses came suddenly alive and tense. She turned her head slowly, and gasped aloud.
    He stood by one of the windows looking out, frowning slightly as if the storm disturbed him. He was wearing a dressing gown, its colors muted. He was dark, with a hawklike profile, and for an instant Antonia thought it was Lyonshall. Indeed, she very nearly cried out a sharp demand to be told what he was doing in her bedchamber.
    Her bewildered anger vanished quickly, however, to be replaced by a pang of chill fear when she realized that she could clearly see the tapestry hanging just beyond him— through his body.
    Unable to believe her own eyes, Antonia swallowed hard and managed to hold her voice steady enough to ask, “Who are you?”
    He did not answer. In fact, he appeared to take no notice of her at all, as if—to him—she was not even in the room. Turning away from the window, he drew a watch from the pocket of his dressing gown and studied it, still frowning. Returning the watch to his pocket, he moved a few