Wartime Wife by Lane Lizzie

Author:Lane, Lizzie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ebury Publishing

Chapter Eighteen

When she woke up, Mary Anne found herself lying on the ugly Victorian chaise longue with the cut-velvet covering of swirling greens and browns.

It came back to her where she was and why she was there. Although she wanted to leave right away, she forced herself to do things slowly.

The first thing she noticed was her unbuttoned coat and cardigan. Violation being the first thought to enter her head, her hand automatically went to her throat then lower towards her cleavage. No more buttons were undone.

Raising her eyes she saw him, the pawnbroker. Dark blond hair curled over the nape of his neck. He had a strong neck, a handsome profile, though there was something in his eyes she couldn’t quite understand. Most of the time he had a guarded look. Only when he smiled did the barrier come crashing down, betraying the man beneath the guarded exterior.

He was gazing into the carrier bag that held the trumpet, his face seeming to reflect its brassy gleam, his eyes glowing with rapture.

Suddenly aware that she was conscious, he put the bag down, and leaned over her. ‘You feel better?’

Hesitantly, she raised a hand to her cheek. It felt hot, yet inside she shivered – especially her limbs.

‘I fainted?’

He nodded, put one arm around her shoulders and held her hand. ‘Sit up slowly.’ His voice was kind.

She saw the defensive look return to his eyes as she rechecked the buttons of her blouse and smoothed her skirt. ‘I’m so sorry about this. I feel so embarrassed.’

‘Are you ill?’

‘No! No.’

She swung her feet to the floor a little too quickly and wished she hadn’t. Her head swam. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she willed herself to focus properly, and, when she did, caught him staring at her, saw his expression shift between openness and restraint.

‘What time is it? I have to get home to my children.’

He shrugged.

She remembered the clocks. ‘Oh yes.’

‘So is my watch,’ he said, glancing at his wrist. ‘But I think it is about three o’clock.’

Mary Anne gasped. ‘Three!’ She rose too quickly to her feet. ‘I have to go. I have a family to cook for.’

A good mother, he thought, admiring her sense of duty, though not quite able to discard the thought that she was a woman first and foremost. Being solicitous, he decided, would help overcome his attraction to her.

‘How many children do you have?’

‘Four,’ she said, buttoning her blouse, then her cardigan.

He picked up her hat and passed it to her. It was a brown hat with a wide brim and a green feather at the side. He thought it suited her well, and found himself quite liking it, though of course, he couldn’t possibly say so.

His eyes stayed fixed on the feather when he spoke to her. ‘A nice size family. How old are they?’

Mary Anne pulled on a pair of knitted gloves. ‘Harry’s twenty, Daw is nineteen, Lizzie is eighteen, and Stanley – he’s the youngest – he’s almost eleven.

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