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346 pages, Paperback
First published July 30, 2013
"...We'll have three weeks to get to know each other better. Maybe by then you'll feel more comfortable with me and tell me what is troubling you so."
"I'm not troubled, not at all."
He gave her a wry grin. "You may not drown your troubles in spirits like I do, Annie, but I recognize a fellow traveler."
- loc 608
He was too honest. She needed to be, too. "Perhaps I won't leave," she said softly. "I might not want to after all. Not after -- this. What we've just done. But I cannot be sure yet. I don't want to give you false hope."
He gave her a crooked grin. "I'll take any sort of hope I can get, Annie. I'm not particular at this point."
- loc 1545
“Good afternoon,” Anne had said briskly, masking her surprise and keeping her chin high. She was bound to get a crick in her neck if she had to address him for any length of time.
“I believe Mi-uh, Mr. Ramsey from The London List sent word to you that I was coming.”
He looked down at her, way down as he was so very tall, with bloodshot blue eyes. “You can’t be the housekeeper.”
He did not slur a word, although his breath nearly knocked her over. She would light no matches anywhere near him or he’d go up like a Guy Fawkes effigy.
“I can indeed, sir. I have a reference from Lady Pennington.” She pulled the forged letter from her reticule.
“How old are you, Mrs. Mont? Twelve? And where is Mr. Mont?”
Evangeline had wanted her to lie and say she lost her husband at Waterloo—which would have made Anne a fourteen-year-old bride—but the man in front of her had probably lost his arm to war so that did not seem at all sporting. Anne knew she looked young—she was young, her freckles forever marking her just a step from the schoolroom. She had decided to be reasonably honest. If Major Ripton-Jones dismissed her, she’d go back to Evangeline and try for something else. Tightrope walker, street walker, it really didn’t matter as long as she escaped her father’s predatory attentions and beatings.
“Housekeepers are always addressed as ‘Mrs.,’ Major Ripton-Jones. Surely you know that. And I am old enough. I’ve been in service for—ages.”
Ever since she had walked into his house, anyway.
The fork she was holding dropped to the slate floor with a clang. Lord but she was a nitwit. The major needed a rich wife, and she needed her money to become independent. Major Ripton-Jones could marry her! Not a real marriage, of course. She hardly knew the man and what she did know did not bode well for any Mrs. RiptonJones. Who wanted a sot for a husband? For all his assurances that his habits were harmless most of the time, she was suspicious. He had a melancholy look about him quite apart from any depression he felt over the loss of his house. He was too lean (and wouldn’t be apt to fatten up from her ministrations unless she studied her cookery book with more diligence) and darkness hung over him like one of the ever-present Welsh clouds.
