The morning light filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of Blackwood Manor's east wing, painting stripes of gold across the marble floor. Eleanor Whitmore sat before the gilt-edged mirror, a silv
Behind her, Sebastian's hands rested lightly on her shoulders. His fingers were warm through the thin muslin of her morning dress, and his breath stirred the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. "Let me," he said, his voice the same velvet timbre that had charmed half the peerage of London at Almack's last season. He took the brush from her hands and began to work through the tangles with...
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