Read And Then He Kissed Her for Free Online Page A

outposts of the Empire. She thought of the stories of the Arabian Nights and places with names like Ceylon and Kashmir, where the air was full of spices and the sound of sitars, where there were marketplaces filled with thick Persian carpets and colorful China silks. Looking at that fan through the dusty glass of a display case in a Regent Street antique shop had made her feel, just for a moment, as beautiful and exotic as Scheherazade. Emma gave a dreamy sigh.
    Mr. Pigeon nuzzled her ear, purring loudly, and she gave up on fantasies of being Scheherazade. Instead, she gave the animal an affectionate rub with the side of her face, liking the feel of his soft fur against her cheek. Then she sat up, pushing aside the counterpane.
    The cat made a protesting meow as she got out of bed. “I know, I know,” she said in reply, “but I have to go to work.” She gave him a glance of mock sternness over her shoulder as she padded across the wood floor in her bare feet. “I cannot laze about napping all day like some.”
    Unimpressed, Mr. Pigeon yawned and settled himself more comfortably on her pillow. As always, Emma allowed him to remain there while she went about her morning routine, leaving the making of the bed until the very last thing.
    She poured water from the white stoneware pitcher into the bowl and reached for the jar of Pears’ Soap. After washing, she dressed in a crisp white shirtwaist, dark blue skirt, and her black leather high-button shoes, then drew back the curtains.
    After sitting down in front of the washstand, she unraveled the long braid of her hair and picked up her hairbrush.
    In the mirror, Emma watched the brush move through her waist-length hair, and the sight of its mother-of-pearl back was always a bittersweet reminder of her aunt. One hundred strokes to make it shine, Aunt Lydia had told her from the time she was fifteen. Papa, had he been alive by that time to hear his sister-in-law’s advice, would have deemed such time in front of a mirror sinfully vain.
    Perhaps it was vain, but Emma did like her hair this way. Most of the time it just looked brown, rather the color of bread crust. But loose like this, a little wavy from the braid, with the sunlight shining on it through the window, the color seemed coppery red, not humdrum brown.
    That green silk dress, she thought, would have been lovely. Ah, well.
    Emma twisted her hair into a chignon at the back of her head, pinned it, and added a pair of pewter combs to be doubly sure the heavy knot would stay in place all day. Satisfied, she started to stand up, then stopped, remembering.
    Today was her birthday.
    Sinking back down, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was thirty.
    She told herself she didn’t look as old as that. She told herself the freckles across her nose and cheekbones, freckles no amount of lemon juice could ever remove, made her seem younger. Ordinary hazel eyes in a long, oval face stared back at her, eyes surrounded by lashes that weren’t dark enough to matter and bracketed by tiny lines that hadn’t been there a year ago. She lifted her hand and traced her fingertips over the three faint parallel grooves across her forehead.
    Discontent returned again to plague her, and Emma jerked her hand down. Any more of this mooning about, and she’d be late. She got up and left the bedroom. Since it was already past eight o’clock she’d missed breakfast in the dining room downstairs, but if she was quick about it, she’d have time to make herself a cup of tea before catching an omnibus to work.
    After drawing back the curtains of her parlor, she heated water from the pitcher on her tiny stove-lamp and nibbled on shortbread as she waited for it to boil. She made her tea, and as it steeped, the scent of jasmine and orange peel wafted up to her nostrils.
    Ceylon. Kashmir. Green silk. Scheherazade.
    Absurd, she scoffed, to pay two guineas for a peacock fan, even on her birthday. More than half a week’s wages for something