Lily sat upright in the bed, holding the sheets around her, not that she had anyone to fear exposing her modesty to. Then, she remembered. It was the day of the hen party and the restaurant run-through for the wedding breakfast. She cast a glance at the clock and squealed. Nine thirty?!

Thanking whatever god was out there for the beautiful blue skies and brilliant sunshine she saw through the windows, she ran to the door of Henry’s room, dragging the sheet with her, peering out into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear – even though she knew it was highly unlikely that anyone would be traipsing around the estate – and did a two-metre dance back to the room where her hopefully-now-dry clothes would be. There was nothing about a walk of shame in her steps, because shame was the last thing she was feeling at that moment.

Lily threw off the bed sheet and jumped into the shower. The hot spray of water pounded against her skin and she couldn’t believe that only hours before she’d stood beneath the same hot water and … everything had changed. Hadn’t it? She bit her lip. Maybe it hadn’t. Henry had said he’d not be able to make her any promises, and she’d meant it when she’d said she didn’t need them.

She closed her eyes against the slight ache in her chest. If he didn’t want anything further than what they’d shared last night, she’d have to be OK with that. She’d made her peace with it before she’d asked him not to turn her away. Because, in truth, even if it was only for one night, it had been incredible. Even now, she still felt the worship in his touch, the consideration, the care and the … no. Anything more had been solely on her part. She couldn’t – wouldn’t – make the same mistake again and misinterpret someone else’s feelings. The only ones she could be responsible for were her own. Last night she had honoured them. And nothing and no one would make her regret that.

But still. A girl could hope, right?

She got out of the shower, drying quickly and thrusting on the jeans and T-shirt that had dried overnight. Her shoes must still be by the fire, with the rest of the hen party things in the living room.

But when she got to the room she stopped. Her shoes were there, yes, right where she left them, but the cushions, the silks … they were gone. Frowning, she peered around the room, trying to see if they had been tucked away somewhere. As if you could tuck away eight large teal sequined sitting cushions and approximately five square metres of tulle and silk. She groaned out loud at the thought of the damage to the silk.

Maybe Henry had taken them downstairs?