Nash lay in bed and contemplated the problem. A part of him was astonished that this was a problem at all. He had not come to Thorncroft to reignite the warm feelings he had once had for Rachel Sheridan. That he still had. That delusion, at least, could safely be put to bed. He did not feel anything, he felt everything, the same fevered emotions that he had experienced the first time he had laid eyes on her across a dance floor. Now things were a little different, of course, because now his desire was tempered with a curious need to protect her from life and all its trials. It in no way diffused his need for her, but Nash found that it transformed his need in minute ways, deepening emotions that marbled the very surface of his soul. He had been disappointed to discover that she had retired when he had returned Lady Sheridan to her husband’s side but he had not been surprised. She had said little enough and he could only guess at what she’d had to endure, fending off the heavy handed – or not so subtle – suggestions from the local gentlemen or the biting acid of the females who cloaked all in a honey-sweet smile of common courtesy.
