Last time, on Ashwood Manor.
Settling into his favorite armchair, allowing his man to remove his shoes before he rested his feet on the footstool next to the fire, Clarence let his mind drift to his evening at Ashwood Manor. Images of Rosemary flowed behind closed eyes; he felt tight muscles in his neck and shoulders relax their grip as he imagined ruby red lips, black hair in a curly bob just brushing the very edge of a delicate jawline, the smooth slope of a shoulder into a beaded black sleeve, eyes clear and pure--the color of emeralds--with a tendency toward humor, slender wrists encircled by stylish silver bracelets--a harsh hand grasping that wrist too tightly, leaving red marks on the milky skin.
Clarence's eyes opened, and he frowned in distaste. To think Rosemary would be married to such a man, someone who obviously did not know how to treat a woman--especially a woman of Rosemary's caliber--to think that she was forced to waste her vibrancy and vitality on such an unworthy husband--his cheeks reddened with the heat of his ire.
If only he could do something about it.
And yet--and yet he couldn't. He would not even consider interfering in the match. It was not his business and frankly his passion was much stronger than it should be. He'd only met her that night, been briefly introduced, watched her from a distance, shared a smile.
He wanted to see her smile more.
Clarence sighed and tousled his hair. There was no use wishing for things that could not be. At his elbow, on a table situated at a comfortable proximity to the chair, was a pile of envelopes, all unopened. The pile was neatly arranged and balanced. No envelope was out of alignment.
To get the whole story of Ashwood Manor, the collection is here.
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