Read Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) for Free Online Page B

choices and preferences, for that matter.” 
    Her ladyship found it necessary to rearrange the drape of her skirts. “Have you been reading the manual again, my lord?” 
    They’d start breakfast with a serving of honesty, because Rammel had not appreciated his wife, of that much Trent was certain.
    “I loved my mother,” Trent said. “She doted on us, preserved us from the worst of my father’s temper, and wasn’t above pitching a cricket ball to her sons when Papa was away. But she was stubborn, had a selfish streak, and could be close-minded. Even as I understood that she needed determination to survive her marriage, I could still acknowledge those traits weren’t always healthy.” 
    “How long has she been gone?” 
    “Years. She was ill for some time first.” 
    “I wonder about that.” Lady Rammel resumed smoothing her skirts. Had she been the one to sew all those rag dolls for Miss Coriander? “I wonder about whether a little time or a lot of time is better than death coming for you in an instant.” 
    “And then,”—Trent reached over and stilled her hand—“you wonder better for whom.” 
    “I don’t miss the things I thought I would,” she said, her gaze on Trent’s bare hand. “I do miss things I thought of as…obligations.” 
    Sex. She’d been a dutiful wife; Rammel had been a healthy young husband, and she missed the sex. How Trent wished he’d lost a wife with whom he missed something so basic. 
    “You miss standing up with him in church?” Trent suggested as the footmen appeared with several trays. 
    She snorted. “Dane in church? He was a hatches and matches Christian, not overly fond of regular services. He did his part for the local living, and he tarried long enough in church to be shackled to me.” 
    “He told you he felt shackled?” Rammel deserved to be trampled in the mud all over again if he’d taken that low shot. 
    To a man who’d been married for five years— not shackled, not even to poor Paula—Lady Rammel’s smile looked forced. “Of course he didn’t use those words. Shall I serve?” 
    “Please.” 
    She was at home with the duties of a hostess, of a wife, and she had the knack of turning the conversation back to innocuous topics—his flowers, Miss Coriander’s clever governess—while she fixed him a plate of scones and fresh strawberries to go with his gunpowder. For his part, Trent let himself enjoy the lilt of her contralto wending through his senses as her hands dealt with the tea service. 
    Unbidden, the sound of her singing, half-naked in the woods, stirred in his memory. 
    He wasn’t particularly hungry, even with all their walking, but he ate to be polite. His guest, however daintily, ate to enjoy her food. 
    “Is there anything more pleasurable on the palate than perfectly ripe fruit?” She chewed a bite of strawberry, her eyes closed, then smiled as she swallowed. “I’m being tiresome to bring it up, but I can’t help but feel as if I’m supposed to fade away, oppressed by grief, unable to eat.” 
    “Some people grieve that way,” Trent said, eyeing his buttered scone. Other people drank and drifted while they neglected themselves and their children. 
    “I am disappointed in Dane for dying,” she replied, munching another strawberry. “I am quite sorry for him, but the great black cloud of overwhelming loss has yet to engulf me for more than a few days or a few hours at a time.” 
    Trent put his plate down because he knew exactly what his guest was asking and had asked it himself until the question had made him sick. 
    “Lady Rammel, if that great black cloud comes calling, I hereby admonish you to have a good cry, then run like hell, gorge yourself on strawberries and flowers and chocolates, wear bright colors, dance on the lawn, and sing at the top of your lungs.” 
    Or fish in my pond , which he could also see her doing. 
    “I don’t think Vicar would support your prescription,” she said, her