Finding solace in shadow, Morgan closed his eyes. Maris. Could she not give him even five minutes of peace? Could he not sit in this sadly inadequate Garrick library, far from the muttering intrigues of her father, her brother, her cousins and the family’s simpering friends, and nurse a too-early snifter of second-rate brandy without she must pursue him like a cat pouncing a hobbled mouse?

“Morgan?”

No, it seemed she could not.

“Well, there you are!” said Maris, finding him, and pressed her hands to her hips as though she meant to scold.

She’d again forsaken her fitted silks and instead wore yet another of her favoured loose, striped cotton gowns which were fashioned after the attire of Ranoushi plainswomen. Quite eccentric. But Venette had assured him a great many of Dorana’s young mages were these days adopting fashions with quaint foreign influences. Hadn’t he noticed them parading their Trindeki and Manemlin finery through Elvado? Coloured glass and crystal beading, exotic patterns embroidered in silver thread, even the startling hint of feathers in their hair?

No. He hadn’t. He had better things to do than ogle strangers in the streets. But if such clothes amused Maris, he’d make no objection… at least, not before they were wed. Afterwards he wouldn’t tolerate her eccentricity.

Luzena would never have dressed in such garb.

Maris was frowning. “Morgan?”

If he could smile at Sallis Arkley, it was in him to smile at her. “Forgive me. I was adrift in my thoughts.”

Her lips pouted. “Oh.”

On arriving at the Garrick estate, knowing he’d leave it bound to this young woman, he’d sworn he’d find a way to make his sacrifice at least bearable. And now here was his soon-to-be betrothed, garish and at the same time alluring in her outrageous, faddish costume. The deep rose and grass green hues of the cotton gown suited her gilded prettiness, and the thin fabric clung without fear to her curves. He could see how her long legs flowed into a smooth glide of hip, moulded into a narrow waist, a slender rib cage. How her modestly revealed breasts rose and fell with her breathing.

Desire stirred.

“Morgan?” Maris glanced at the open library door. A wave of her hand closed it. “My dear, was there something you wanted?”

What he truly wanted he could never have. But did that mean he must live the rest of his days deprived?

He put the dreadful brandy on the small table beside him, and held out his hand to the woman he did not wish to marry. “I want many things, Maris.”

“As do I,” she said, and went to him. “Do you suppose you and I might want the same things?”

“Some of the same things.” He laced his fingers with hers and tugged until she tumbled into his lap. “But what they might be, I think we are yet to discover.”