The Marker by Meggan Connors Read Free Book Online Page B

them. Intrigued, he plucked the poetry from the stack, and it fell open to a dog-eared page.
    Lord Byron. He had always thought this poem a bit much, considering it was about a woman. He had always thought no woman worthy of such praise, even the fairest. It was overly dramatic stuff, but that didn’t mean he had been above quoting it to one—or several—of his conquests. But he read the lines again, and they made him think of Lexie. She really was beautiful like the night, so beautiful he thought of little else. If Nicholas hadn’t known better, he would have sworn such a poem had been written for Lexie, with her midnight hair and eyes, light and dark meeting in the aspect of her perfect features.
    As he closed the book, he noticed the watermarks, the pages still damp from her tears. He had to smile—she hadn’t been reading Engels after all. She might have read it before, but not tonight, and the plight of the proletariat hadn’t caused her to weep. This poem, praising the very real beauty of a woman, had done that. He smiled.
    His Lexie had a romantic heart, after all.

Chapter 4
     
    Maybe Nicholas thought she would come around in a day, two days at the outside. If so, he thought wrong.
    Lexie kept her head down when he addressed her, nodded to show she understood, but she never met his eyes. It was hard to do—she loved the planes of his face, the way his turquoise eyes glittered with mischief and good humor. Still, even when he chatted with her amiably, she said nothing. She didn’t meet his gaze or even look at him.
    He was undeterred by her silence. Nicholas Wetherby didn’t accept defeat, gracefully or otherwise.
    He told jokes, and she had to work to keep a straight face. He made outrageous, suggestive statements, and she struggled to stop herself from shouting at him. He seemed to make an effort to be around the house, forgoing his usual escapades at the gambling hall, and was constantly underfoot. He was everywhere she went. In the kitchen, the library, the study. The sitting room. The porch. The stables.
    Twice she encountered him wearing nothing but his britches after she’d been assured he would be out for the day. She’d been so startled to see him in such a state she had bumped into the wall and spilled the contents of her bucket all over herself. Mortified, she nearly stammered an apology before she’d fled. Luckily, shock took precedence over good manners.
    His booming laugh had followed her down the hall.
    If she had the ability to erase the sight of him, damp-haired and shirtless, water glistening on his skin and in his golden hair, she would. Instead, the image haunted her days and her nights, leaving her both agitated and breathless. Seeing him day in and day out made it impossible to banish him from her thoughts.
    A week into their domestic battle, Lexie came into her room to find a brand new silk gown on her narrow bed. It was a dark, rich emerald, and she was a little embarrassed to note it was not only suited to her tastes but also precisely her size, too, as if he knew her mind and had memorized the contours of her body. The gown was beautiful, intricate in the small details, the clothes of a wealthy woman. In no way should she accept this.
    She put the dress in his wardrobe.
    The following day, she came into her bedroom to find not only the green gown, but also a navy gown, with flowers of the palest pink sewn into it. The neckline swept off the shoulders, trimmed with a fine bit of lace, expensive and romantic. And Lexie, who never had the money to purchase much of anything, was not immune to lure of finer things. Even so, both gowns were in his wardrobe within an hour.
    Every day for five days, she found a new gown on her bed. She never confronted him. She just sneaked into his room to return the gown. She’d never seen him enter hers. When, on the fifth day, she found a scarlet silk on her bed, in addition to the navy, the green, the black, and the purple, Lexie found herself