Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. 1 through 1. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester.
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