He lifted it with thumb and forefinger, his touch gentle for a man of his strength, history, and supposed character. He paused to reflect on this as he examined its petals with callused fingers. He did not expect, after murdering his enemies by the dozens, that he still had that quality in him that would allow him to caress a flower without doing it damage. Christian stopped typing and reread what he’d written. He deleted ‘dashing ne’er-do-well and rogue.’ This was his third book featuring Lord John, so if the readers didn’t know he was a handsome devil by now, he’d been doing something wrong. “Might as well include his birth certificate and resume.” He glanced around to make sure no one had heard him muttering to himself. The motion was done out of habit. His wife had packed up her suitcase and driven away a month before. She’d sent a letter, not an email, to give him the news. “It’s not you,” it said. “It’s Lord Loring.
