All that angst collects in their liver and there it sits, spoilin’ away, causin’ all manner of sour looks and bad dispositions. Dawson, the Duke of Devonshire’s head footman, to Belvins, His Grace’s valet, as the two stood in line in the front hall awaiting His Grace’s arrival Verena struggled. “Let me up!” Brand caught her chin and turned her face to his. His touch was amazingly gentle, a definite question darkening his gaze. Verena swallowed. His fingers were so warm. And he was ill; she could see by the glitter of his eyes that he still had a bit of fever. He seemed to sense her softening, for his lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile as he gently brushed her hair from her forehead. She was proof against anything but his tenderness. It made her all the more determined to get free. “Brandon, let me up. Please.” For a long moment, he stared at her as if assessing her thoughts. Then, to her surprise, he rolled off and grabbed his pants. He jerked them on in a matter of seconds.
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