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300 pages, ebook
First published July 30, 2019



“The man looks at you like you’re the first meal he’s seen in a decade of famine. Make marriage the price to dine.”4.25 stars, raised to 4.5 stars on third reading
“What should I be called, then?”
“Your name.”
“And what is my name?” He was only half teasing. He wanted to hear his name on rosebud lips.
Her eyes, for all that they stopped a man’s heart with their beauty, gave him nothing. In all his days, he’d never seen a woman so opaque. She was as cool and pristine as mirrored glass in a moonlit room. But for a split second, something flickered beneath the surface. A shadow, then a spark. Fear followed by defiance.
“Jonas,” she whispered. “Jonas Bartholomew Hawthorn.”
He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Bloody hell, in three words, she’d lit him afire.
Her gaze slid to his chin, his neck, his waist. “I am glad you are well,” she said, her voice small and tight. “I have never been so glad of anything.”
Her maid came to fetch her. A light breeze blew across his skin as she gave him a polite nod and walked toward the castle. Distantly, he heard the fountain splashing. Birds calling. Guests chatting. Lady Wallingham crowing.
But all he could do was stand there with the sun warming his back.
She knew his name. He’d never told her the middle one. Perhaps she’d learned it from her brother or Lord Dunston. Perhaps the physician had mentioned it. One thing was clear—a woman who bothered to learn his middle name and speak it back to him was not as indifferent as she’d have him believe.