In my last post, I showed you Edward, the hero of The Spinster's Secret, through the heroine's eyes. This time I'd like to show you the heroine, Matilda Chapple, through the hero's.

Firstly, though, the preamble to this scene. It's after dinner, and Edward has just had a glass of port with his host, Sir Arthur Strickland.

Strickland struggled to his feet, leaning on the cane. “Please join us in the drawing room.”

Edward stood. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

Strickland made his way slowly to the door. Edward followed. They traversed the corridor at a snail’s pace. “My niece reads to us in the evenings,” Strickland said, stopping outside a paneled door.

“How delightful,” Edward said, remembering her contralto voice. “Poetry?”

“Sermons,” the old man said, opening the door.

Sermons? Edward almost balked. If you can face Napoleon’s army on a battlefield, you can face an evening of sermons, he told himself, and he squared his shoulders and followed his host into the drawing room.

And now the scene itself:

Miss Chapple opened the leather-bound book. She looked at Edward. “I shall be reading from Sermons to Young Women,” she told him. “By the Reverend James Fordyce. Are you familiar with the work, Mr. Kane?”

“Er . . . no.” He sat back in the armchair and composed his face into an expression of interest.

“Sermon Two,” Miss Chapple read aloud. “On Modesty of Apparel.”

Edward stopped paying attention. He gazed at the fire and allowed Miss Chapple’s voice to flow over him.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, the clock hands had advanced fifteen minutes.

Edward sat up straight, blinking. He uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way.

“The less vanity you betray,” Miss Chapple read, “the more merit we shall always be disposed to allow you.”

He focused his attention on her, trying to guess her age. She was well past girlhood. Somewhere in her twenties, but precisely where was hard to determine; her skin was as smooth as that of a girl in her teens.

Edward studied her, trying to see a resemblance to Toby and finding none. Miss Chapple’s hair was an indifferent mid-brown, her nose unremarkable and quite unlike Toby’s jutting beak. An ordinary face, although he thought she might have dimples when she smiled. The only feature of note was her mouth, which was too large for beauty. But a lush mouth could never be a fault in a woman.

Miss Chapple’s figure was as generous as her mouth; she had none of Toby’s leanness. The gray gown was overlarge, as if attempting to hide her abundant curves.

Edward’s gaze lingered on her breasts for a fleeting moment before he wrenched them away. She’s reading a sermon, he admonished himself.

How much longer could the wretched thing be? Miss Chapple’s voice was as soporific as a lullaby . . .

The jerk of his head dropping forward woke him. The clock told him he’d lost another five minutes. Edward glanced around. No one had noticed. He swallowed a yawn and managed not to rub his eyes.

So, there you have it: Edward nodding off during an evening of sermons. Poor Edward!