“Leah?” he asked. “I thought her name was Anne.”
“Both are correct. Since her mother’s name was also Anne, our Anne was called Leah to avoid confusion. She prefers the name she’s most accustomed to, so we are to call her Leah.”
Ian fought the urge to shake his head, thereby clearing the muddle from his brain. “Leah—Anne—whichever she desires, so be it,” he said, then glanced at the mantel clock. Seven thirty. A brandy—that’s what he needed to settle his nerves. For some unexplained reason, he felt the girl’s presence was going to wreak havoc in their lives, especially his. “If you don’t mind, I will retire to the study for a few minutes. I’ll not be long.”
“Don’t imbibe too much, Ian,” the countess said as he strode toward the doorway. “I wouldn’t want Leah to get the wrong impression about us.”
Coming up short, he turned around. “Had you not the most peculiar way of throwing disharmony into a man’s life, I wouldn’t presently be deserting you for the soothing effects of a brandy.”
The countess sighed heavily. “Your father always said the same thing. But from the day we married until the day he died, he was never gone from my side for more than five minutes at a time. Oh, Ian, I do hope you will soon find that special someone so you, too, can experience a love very much like the one your father and I shared.”
Ian’s gaze softened on the woman who presently held his heart. “Not everyone is as fortunate as were you and father. It may be, Mother, that I shall never find that special someone with whom I can share a deep and abiding love. I might have to settle for companionship instead.”
“Veronica?”
“Yes, Veronica. We are well-suited in temperament and share many of the same interests. I plan to ask for her hand at the end of next month.”
“I caution you not to act in haste, Ian. Veronica is a delightful young woman, but I doubt you will be happy with her. Mark my words. Your special someone is out there, somewhere, waiting for you to come into her life.”
A dark auburn eyebrow arched quizzically. “And how, pray tell, will I know she is the one?” he asked, doubting such a woman existed. At thirty-three, he’d yet to find her!
Madeline smiled up at him, confidence showing in her gaze. “You’ll know, son, the moment you see her.”
“Should I encounter the lady you speak of, Mother, I’ll let you know. Right now, I want nothing more than to seek out that brandy.”
Having descended the steps only a moment ago, bathed, coiffed, and dressed in the gown the countess had selected for her, Leah inspected the portrait she’d seen earlier that day. Her head tilted one way, then the other as she assessed the virile figure inside the gilt frame.
Thick and rich, dark auburn hair crowned his head. Her fingers itched to feel its texture, an impossibility, she knew.
Her attention affixed itself to the man’s face, with its angles and planes, each perfectly positioned to form a striking effect. Exceptional, she thought, studying his shapely lips.
The eyes drew her.
Magically the artist’s hand had captured the glint in his subject’s deep blue gaze, and Leah wondered what could be the root of the man’s mirth. Informally posed, his arm resting on a pedestal, his flowing white shirt open half way down his broad chest, he seemed to be boldly flouting propriety, and enjoying every minute of it.
Tight black breeches molded to his narrow hips and sinewy thighs. Impressive, she concluded, for not much had been left to the imagination. Or had it? Fire burned her cheeks as her gaze quickly skipped back to the man’s face, and his laughing eyes. It was now Leah who had become the source of his merriment! Or so she believed. Mortified, she wanted to kick herself for her daring appraisal and the fantasy it evoked.
Demanding her fluttering heart behave, she stepped forward to read the name plate attached to the ornate frame. “Ian Sinclair,” she mused aloud, “ninth Earl of Huntsford.”
“At your service, Miss Kingsley.”
Leah spun round, nearly colliding with the man who had unknowingly crept up behind her. “You,” she cried, glancing at the portrait, then back at him, her embarrassment flaming anew.
“Yes, we are one and the same,” Ian said, a grin teasing his lips, for he’d noted her blush. What had she been thinking? “Since I am here in the flesh, you may inspect me more closely.” He stepped around her and centered himself beneath the huge portrait. “Which do you say? Of the two, who is the more handsome? Me or my likeness?”
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Almost A Whisper
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CHARLENE CROSS is the award-winning author of Deeper Than Roses, A Heart So Innocent, and Masque of Enchantment.
“In my early childhood,” Charlene says, “dragons, knights, and princesses filled my hours of daytime play, my nights of blissful slumber. I was a dreamer, a champion for the underdog, a believer that good always triumphed over evil. Adulthood hasn’t tarnished those beliefs. Although I’m very much a realist, I am equally a romantic. I still need to believe in those magical words: ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ As a writer, I hope my characters will capture your heart and make you a believer as well. If, as you read, a smile touches your lips or a tear comes to your eye, please let me know. Only then will I discover if I’ve succeeded in my quest.”
Charlene resides near St. Louis, Missouri, with her husband, Ron—her real-life hero of twenty-six years—and their three children, Dawn, Tracey, and Brian. She is currently working on her next book, Almost a Whisper, the sequel to Masque of Enchantment. She welcomes your comments, and you may write her at:
P.O.Box 515095
St. Louis, MO 63151
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