To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) by Kristina Cook

Author:Kristina Cook [Cook, Kristina]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2008-06-26T03:42:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Eleanor wrapped her cloak tightly about herself and set off across the field, her heart thumping so vigorously in her breast that she feared it might burst. Perhaps one hundred yards from the house she paused, leaning against the wide, swirling trunk of a sweet chestnut tree. This was madness, utter and complete madness. She should turn back immediately, before it was too late. Before she did something entirely foolish.

But, blast it, she wanted to go. Doing so was imprudent, terribly so. Selina would be scandalized were she to find out. She could never tell her. Never She glanced up at the moon and sighed, her breath making a puff of steam in the cool night air. For perhaps the sixth time in the past hour, she pulled out the folded square of paper from her cloak pocket and unfolded the page, now slightly worn and ragged along the edges.

The bright light of a full, harvest moon illuminated the words on the page, though she had memorized them by now-each and every word burned into her mind for eternity.

Her first love letter.

My Dearest Eleanor;

If only I were a poet, I would put lovely words to the page, words that would adequately describe your grace, your charm, your flawless beauty. But alas, I am no poet. I am but a man filled with longing, with desire that knows no bounds. I beg of you, meet me at the cottage tonight at midnight-the witching hour For you must be a witch to have ensnared me as you have, my thoughts filled with naught else but memories of your face, your smile, your voice. Indeed, my lovely Eleanor you have bewitched me. I must know ifI am to suffer alone, or ifyou are similarly afflicted by feelings which I dare not name. I will wait for you till the first light of dawn.

Until then, Frederick

Was this some sort of cruel game he played, toying with her in this way? Or did he mean these words that quickened her pulse, that made her knees go weak with anticipation? She would have no peace till she found out. She must go; she hadn't a choice.

Hastily, she refolded the page and slipped it back into her cloak, glancing up at the moon just as a wispy cloud moved across the lower half of the silvery orb, casting shadows upon the lawn. Looking around to make sure no one was about, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and hurried on toward the bluff where she would follow the path to the cottage. It should take her a quarter hour to reach her destination, no more. Midnight. The witching hour.

For the third time in the past half hour, Frederick strode to the window and pulled back the drapes, peering out at the sandy path that lay before the cottage where tiny grains of mica twinkled under the light of the moon and stars. He had come to the cottage immediately upon excusing himself for the night.

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