Chapter 18…absolutely.
…from Michael Stirling to his mother, Helen, three years after his departure for India.
The following morning was, to the best of Francesca’s recollection, quite the worst of recent memory.
All she wanted to do was cry, but even that seemed beyond her. Tears were for the innocent, and that was an adjective that she could never again use to describe herself.
She hated herself this morning, hated that she’d betrayed her heart, her every last principle, all for a spot of wicked passion.
She hated that she had felt desire for a man other than John, and really hated that the desire had gone beyond anything she’d felt with her husband. Her marriage bed had been one of laughter and passion, but nothing, nothing could have prepared her for the wicked thrill she had felt
