The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe by Sabrina Darby Read Free Book Online

hand. After a moment he turned his own hand and folded his fingers over hers.

 
    C HAPTER S IX
    S he hadn’t intended to go to church. She’d hoped to spend Sunday as she’d spent every other day this week, at the castle. With John.
    Who was different from anything she had expected when she’d embarked on this journey. He was a hero. A man who was tall and strong and looked invincible. As if he’d weathered storms. Could make the wind bend to his desire.
    But inside, he’d walled himself off as much as he had sequestered himself within the ruins of the old castle fortifications. To protect himself from the ugliness he’d seen at war and the unwelcome knowledge that people were animals and that duty and country and honor could fall away in an instant.
    His expression, the language of every curve and line of his body, made the horrors she’d passed over in newspapers into reality.
    It wasn’t a mistress he needed, but a friend. Someone who would be as solid and true as the rock that surrounded him. As straightforward as Jasper.
    Who didn’t lie to him. Or intend to seduce him for money.
    He’d hate her if he ever knew.
    Her chest constricted at the thought.
    From a seat in the second to last row of the church, she caught sight of John entering. The ache in her chest grew until she realized she’d been holding her breath, nearly gaping at him.
    Half naked, he was a stunning man but this was the first time she’d seen him fully clothed—complete with waistcoat, cravat, coat, and hat.
    Devastating. Every man should look like that in his clothes without need of artifice.
    His head turned to the left. His gaze caught hers and then he nodded, a slow smile curving the far side of his lips. She wanted those lips. To tease them, run her tongue over them.
    She was in a church, for goodness sake!
    Oh, Lord . There was his mother standing next to him, watching Angelina leer at her son. Mrs. Martin’s eyebrow raised slightly in question but Angelina schooled her features into a neutral expression and looked vacantly through the other woman.
    Then John, his mother, and the entire moment moved on. As she had requested, he didn’t approach her, nor force an awkward (and unnecessary) introduction.
    But seeing him with his mother was enlightening. They shared the same coloring, although Mrs. Martin’s dark brown hair was lightened by gray. And as she had the first time they met in London, Angelina itched to suggest coloring it to hide that telltale sign of age. The gray made her nervous.
    But where John was tall and broad, with strong, defined features, his mother was petite and wispy, fragile-looking.
    Not that Angelina would make the mistake of thinking the woman actually fragile. No woman without iron for her bones would advertise in the paper for her son’s mistress. Or perhaps it was foolishness. Yes, if John ever found out, it wouldn’t only be Angelina he’d resent. At least the ties of blood might let him forgive his mother.
    The church grew crowded. A woman with two children pushed past Angelina into the pew. A farmer’s wife, perhaps. The woman gave her a brief, curious look but made no other acknowledgement.
    Angelina stifled a sigh and shifted slightly in her seat to catch another glimpse of John where he sat a dozen rows in front of her.
    S unday was always exhausting. John joined his mother in the front right pew. In the front left pew sat Mrs. Ellis and her three young daughters. As usual, John went through the motions, made the necessary comments and noises. But whereas the last two dozen Sundays he’d focused inward, thought of measurements and supplies, today he thought of Angelina. Counted the different shades in her hair, from near white to a sunny gold to a very pale brown. Today, when he’d passed her as he walked down the aisle, that shining mass was pulled up into one of those knots ladies loved. He imagined it down. Wondered