Read Borrowed Vows for Free Online Page A

courtyard. “Yes.” What point was there in pretending? Just looking at him filled her with desire!
    The nurse’s walking stick tapped as she went to the table and picked up the wedding ring. “Then you must not be without this symbol of wedlock, Kathryn, for when he placed it on Rosalind’s finger, he swore it would only be removed if the marriage should be at an end.”
    Kathryn looked at the plain golden band, and then remembered something. “But he doesn’t love Rosalind; he’s still in love with his first wife.”
    “Elizabeth bequeathed a bitter legacy, my dear. Just be yourself in Rosalind’s guise, that’s all.”
    “A bitter legacy? But...”
    “Ask no questions, Kathryn, for tonight is to be enjoyed to the full. Dawn will come only too soon.”
    Kathryn needed no further bidding, but gathered her skirts to hurry down to him.
     

Chapter Five
     
    An irresistible eagerness bubbled through Kathryn as she emerged into the courtyard. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t really married to Sir Dane Marchwood, only that she was with him now. She felt as if she were in the early throes of a reckless, wonderful new love, and if he’d extended his hand to her, she’d have taken it readily. But he didn’t. His expression was impossible to gauge. If he was glad to see her, he gave no sign, and if he was displeased, he gave no sign of that either. His face was a mask.
    “I trust you’re ready to leave now, madam?” he inquired coolly.
    His tone was as chill as the glint in his gray eyes. Oh, such a gray, like the sea in winter, or a mountain stream beneath a stormy sky. But she knew that were he to smile, her very soul would melt. Instead, his remoteness washed soberingly over her, causing her steps to falter. Alice must be wrong to insist that he only suspected about the affair with Thomas. Surely the coldness pervading him now signified his certain knowledge that his wife was being unfaithful? What other interpretation could there be?
    She managed to reply. “Yes, I’m ready, sir.”
    “Then let us return to Marchwood.” He offered her his arm, but the action wasn’t conciliatory or even attentive, merely a rigid observance of etiquette.
    Her fingers slid tentatively over the rich black velvet of his sleeve. He felt so strong and firm, so very exciting, that she knew if he were to take her in his arms and kiss her as Thomas Denham had done, she wouldn’t draw back.
    They walked down the alley to the waiting carriage, where the coachman flung open the door and Dane assisted her to her seat. She could smell the leather upholstery, and, more unexpectedly, the fragrance of crushed rosemary leaves. Then she remembered, or at least, the part of her that was Rosalind remembered. She’d walked in the gardens at Marchwood castle earlier in the evening, and picked a sprig of rosemary which she’d dropped underfoot in the carriage when they’d driven to Gloucester. It was lying there still, releasing its perfume into the summer night.
    When Dane had taken his seat opposite her, the coachman climbed up onto his perch and roused the team into action. The street was too confined for such a vehicle to turn, so the carriage had to drive around the cathedral precincts, passing George Eden’s fine house before emerging into the street again and coming up to a smart trot through moonlit Gloucester.
    It was a very different city from the one she’d seen earlier. The streets were narrow and cobbled, sometimes with buildings right in the middle of the carriageway, and the shops had bow windows with bottle-glass panes. There were watchmen with lanterns and rattles, and galleried inns where stagecoaches came and went.
    And there were reminders too of the recent victory at Waterloo. Colorful bunting was threaded across the streets, and occasionally she saw window illuminations of England’s savior, the Duke of Wellington. But beneath the joy of victory, life went on as before. Those who’d been poor remained so, and