A Lord For The Wallflower Widow. Ann Lethbridge

voice held a question, though her face was perfectly calm. A calmness she wore like armour to hide her worry. But the tremble in the hand that clutched her robe close gave her away.

      He shouldn’t have come. ‘I don’t suppose you would offer me a cup of tea?’

      She stared at him for a long moment.

      He really should not have come.

      She rose from her chair, tall, magnificent, composed. ‘Very well.’