Chapter Fourteen
Mordecai had had better nights. His brain chewed on Miss Wrotham’s words, gnawed them down to tiny fragments, spat them out.
Good. Kind. Generous. Dictatorial.
It wasn’t the first time she’d called him kind. But dictatorial clearly outweighed kind in Miss Wrotham’s lexicon. And—damn it—he wasn’t dictatorial. He didn’t want to control her life, didn’t want to curb and constrain her; he wanted to help her spread her wings.
You’re used to having your own way. I think we’d argue.
I like you too much to marry you.
I’ll be your mistress if you’ll have me, but not your wife.
Mordecai tossed, he turned, he threw off his sheets, he kneaded his pillow into a more comfortable shape. Finally he gave up trying to sleep and just stared at the shadowy ceiling.
I’ll be your mistre
