“Mrs. Sinclair.”
The gentle shake of an old hand, accompanied by the familiar, slightly musty scent of starch and lavender, pulled Amelia from a shallow, troubled sleep. She blinked against the morning light filtering through the heavy drapes. An old housemaid, her face a roadmap of kindly wrinkles, stood over her.
“I am so sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Sinclair. You looked so peaceful.”
Amelia’s mind was a sluggish river of confusion. She was in Austin’s bed, the linen sheets cool against her skin, and she was wearing his oversized, crisply starched white shirt—which she borrowed last night.
Last night... the fight. The words had been cruel, sharp darts, flung across the bedroom. She remembered the dizzying exhaustion, the burning betrayal, and sinking into the deep, velvet armchair
