Harriet felt as if she were in some ridiculous romance novel. When that thought crossed her mind, she suppressed a laugh, since the novel she’d much rather be in was the quite scandalous one her friend Letitia had written. It was to be released early in the new year and Harriet was relatively sure there would be a great deal of shock attached to its debut.
With luck, she’d be away from it all. As would Letitia, who would be Mrs. James FitzArden by then and immune to all things shocking. Besides, nobody but family knew she’d written a book at all, and even fewer knew what it was about.
Yes, she’d rather be a heroine created by Letitia…provided she could have a hero to match.
She glanced ahead at Paul, riding his horse as if he was born to the saddle, tall and so masculine in every tiny detail. He was the perfect hero for her imagined romance novel.
She sighed.
A shared kiss or two didn’t indicate a desire for a deeper or more intense involvement. She’d told herself that several times after the eventful night during which such embraces had occurred.
It was a pity she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it.
