Chapter Twenty-Two
Back at the inn, Mordecai retreated to his bedchamber, where he stripped down to his shirt-sleeves. Damn, but it was hot. He wrote a number of letters—to his man of business, to his bailiffs—then had a cold bath. He sponged himself down and shaved carefully, while anticipation built in his blood. Tonight I’m going to make love to Eleanor Wrotham.
He went downstairs to the private parlor. Eleanor was already there. She was once again wearing the ivory-white gown with the vandyked hem. Mordecai had realized over the past few days that she had only three gowns with her. Three gowns, one pair of shoes, one bonnet, one spencer.
“Good evening,” he said, and wondered if he dared offer to buy her a whole new wardrobe.
They sat at the table. Mordecai poured them both wine and
