Glowing from her sponge bath, Sylvia wandered around the Sea Witch’s well-appointed stateroom. So well appointed she’d found a nightgown to fit her in the sea chest, and, best of all, a sailor had brought jugs of hot water for bathing. Over Jeannie’s protests that she ought to help, Sylvia had sent the poor old woman to bed. This luxury she needed no help to enjoy.Absent-mindedly, she pulled a comb through her wet hair as she investigated the room. The polished mahogany fittings with brass hinges and handles gleamed in the swinging lamplight. An ivory-backed hairbrush rested in a cunning rack on the dressing table fixed to the wall. She picked it up and turned it over. Everything had a place and everything was small and neat, like a doll’s house. Except the bed.The blatant, opulent monstrosity had a midnight-blue canopy and pale blue satin sheets embroidered in gold with the Stanford crest. ‘I’ll join you in a while,’ Christopher had said before he left her to bathe. Expectation blazed in his eyes and her heart had quickened.After she had bedded him willingly, he assumed she was his.
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