Strong, capable, and bare. He was not a man who wore gloves as a matter of course. Her gaze went back to the house beyond his broad shoulder. With its honey gold stone exterior, Honey House was an apt name. Neatly tended, low bushes underscored the three sets of windows on the ground floor. Four chimneys jutted from the roofline that kissed the tops of the windows on the first floor. Quaint, charming, and elegant with crisp, clean lines, it was nowhere near as grand as Paxton Manor. Rather it was the perfect residence for a country gentleman, or a London gentleman like James who wished to occasionally rusticate in the country. She liked it immensely, but that fact did not ease the trepidation that had seeped into her stomach the moment the carriage had slowed to a stop outside the front door. “Rose?” Taking a deep breath, she laid her gloved hand in his and exited the carriage. The front door swung open as they approached. “Mr. Archer. Welcome home.” A rotund, older woman with a mop of gray curls closed the door behind them.
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