She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. Then he understood. I’m going to tell you things plainly. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. F.
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