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351 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published June 1, 2008
In all the years he had known her, he had never once touched her except very properly on the hand, on the elbow, and once on the back, when he had helped her into a carriage.
The more time she spent with Jane, Mary and Louisa, the more she realised her marriage had not been the only one made on short acquaintance and uncertain affection. Louisa liked being a viscountess, but otherwise had little fondness for Lord Elton. Mary’s marriage had been arranged by her parents, and she made no secret of being resenting being treated like a child by her elderly husband.
Celia sat beside him on the sofa, where he could touch her hand discreetly from time to time to make her cheeks turn pink.
“Celia realized what had brought her to Anthony’s room tonight, what had made her stay when he told her to go: it was love. Not the giddy, effervescent infatuation she’d felt before, but real love, the deep, true feeling for another that didn’t need poetry and flowers to thrive. It was not the hothouse plant her affection for Bertie had been, but a strong and vibrant thing. It hadn’t withered and died at the first storm but had grown stronger with each trial it endured, until the roots of it spread through her entire being. She could never rip it out without ripping out a piece of herself.”
“I love you,” he repeated. His grip tightened on her hand. “I love you.”
Celia smiled. If she didn’t smile, she might cry. “I know,” she told him softly. “I’ve known that for a while now.”
“All that you are, I am, too,” she said.
He turned their linked hands over, raising her knuckles to his lips. “No, my dear, I think you are much better.”