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the coolness of the air in the carriage, her palms grew moist. The man made her want to do things she thought she’d long outgrown. Because, holy heaven, he was everything her husband had never been. Young, good-looking, dashing and outspoken.
    She’d been married almost fourteen years to the day when her husband, Frederick, had died back in 1823, which was now seven years ago. Lord Stone had gone to sleep one night in his room and had never woken up. Despite the fact that she had grudgingly learned to love him in her own way, she lived every day of those fourteen years knowing she had married him for his money and that he had married her for her youth and her beauty.
    It didn’t make for a good marriage.
    Sex was scheduled. It occurred every Monday and Friday evening. If the man wasn’t busy or tired. Sometimes, she climaxed, but only when and if he put effort into it. All too many times, she learned to lay on her back, thinking about nothing in particular until he was done. He would then roll off, pat her cheek in thanks, shrug on his robe and plod back to his room. He never embraced her after the act. Nor did he ever stay in her bed to sleep. He thought it was in poor taste for a man to display any form of affection, even behind closed doors. She quickly mastered the art of using her fingers and would wantonly imagine she was being ravaged by one of her good-looking male neighbors.
    Though Frederick travelled extensively prior to their marriage, he never held any interest in letting her or the children see much of the world. Going up into Scotland was considered worldwide travelling for their family. His sole interest had been collecting antiquities, attending parliament sessions during debates and taking long walks. Alone. Always alone. He spent time with her and the children only when it suited him. Which wasn’t often.
    He did, however, let her buy whatever she wanted. In fact, he encouraged it because it was his way of making up for being so morbidly removed. She therefore spent a lot of time shopping with her children and together they always delivered bountiful weekly boxes of items to countless charities throughout London. It made for a rather uneventful life spent solely in shops and…well, shops.
    Such was the bane of marrying a man for money. One had everything yet nothing.
    Adjusting his coat, Mr. Levin smoothed out the fabric of his trousers against his knee and flicked his gaze to the window. “We are slowing. Are you getting off with me?”
    “I most certainly won’t be travelling on to find out who my ‘brother with the doctor’ is,” she chided.
    He smirked. “’Tis good to know you have a sense of humor about this.”
    She sighed. “Panicking certainly never served me well.”
    “It never serves anyone well. Chin up. We will find your son.”
    The driver called out something in Russian and the carriage slowed, tugged and pulled until it clattered to a complete halt.
    Silence now pulsed around them.
    Mr. Levin swiped up his wool cap from the frayed upholstered seat, tugged it onto his head and grabbed up her reticule, shoving into his coat pocket. Opening the door with his shoulder and weight until it swung out, he jumped down from the coach with a resounding thud of leather boots crunching into gravel, turned and snapped out a large hand. “Our connecting coach into Saint Petersburg does not arrive for another two days. There is a small inn down the road. You and I can share a room until the coach comes in. I will pay for it.”
    She tightened her hold on her shawl at the thought of sharing a room for two nights with a good-looking Russian she just met. In all her forty years, she had never strayed. As a mother to four children, she had gone above and beyond ensuring no man, especially her cousin, stepped anywhere near their lives after the death of her husband. Her children came first. And even though she had considered taking a lover, for she did get lonely, she had this irrational fear