Until Joanna.
Absently touching the side of his neck where her lips had left a faint purple bruise, he resumed walking, his ridiculous grin larger than ever.
Joanna had turned his entire world upside down.
She’d forced him to take a good, hard look at himself and ask ifthiswas what he wanted. A plain life. A tranquil life. A life with purpose but no passion. A life with direction but no desire.
The answer…the answer was obvious.
He wanted Joanna.
He’dalwayswanted Joanna.
And all the chaotic, impulsive joy that she carried with her wherever she went.
When he had rescued her from the horses, his want for her, his desperateneed, had terrified him. And it still did. But overriding that sense of fear was the knowledge that he didn’t have to be afraid. His past need not direct his future. He had made mistakes with Lavinia. Horrific mistakes. But how much longer was he going to punish himself? How much longer was he going to make himself suffer? How much longer was he going to keep himself from being happy?
Joanna made him happy.
Being with her, hell, just being in the sameroomas her was like feeling the first rays of sun on his face after a long, cold night. She’d brought him out of the darkness, and he had never seen her equal. Not even in Lavinia. For Joanna’s beauty flowed from the inside, while Lavinia’s only existed on the surface, like an apple that was shiny on the surface but black and rotten at the core.
He’d allowed that rot to infect him.
Tochangehim.
But not anymore.
Kincaid had just begun to whistle—whistle!—when he rounded a corner…and slammed into a lady walking her small, furry rat.
No, not a rat, he registered as he grasped the woman by her shoulders to keep her from falling and the tiny rodent began to yap at his ankles. A dog. A fluffy white dog with a pink ribbon collar.
He recognized the collar first.
Lavinia had always been partial to pink, and she dressed all of her animals—three Persian cats and four Pomeranians, the last he knew—in the color.
Then he smelled her perfume. That, too, was unchanged.
Too sweet, like an orange left to wither on the branch, it invaded his nostrils as he automatically bent to retrieve the parcel that had gone flying when he had collided…with Lady Lavinia Townsend.
Slow to stand, he considered throwing the wrapped box at her and running in the opposite direction. But that wasn’t how you defeated your demons.
“Lady Townsend.” His tone a step below frigid, he held out the box. It contained shoes, if he had to guess. Shopping seemed to be the only thing that brought Lavinia genuine happiness. And wasn’t it sad, if that were true?
For so long, he had been soangrywith her. Eventually, that anger had turned to bitterness, and that bitterness to solemn resolve never to open his heart again. But maybe…maybe Lavinia had never deserved his anger. Maybe what he should have given her all this time was his pity.
She had everything anyone could have ever wanted. A title, immeasurable wealth, good health, popularity. Despite all that, she was still wasn’t happy. She’d neverbeenhappy. Because happy people did not hurt those they loved.
“Why, as I live and breathe, it’s Thomas Kincaid,” Lavinia purred, her voice—a little breathy with a touch of smoke—precisely as he remembered it.
As his gaze swept across her in a brusque, passionless examination, he wasn’t surprised to discover the rest of her was just the same as he remembered. Whatever pact Lavinia had made with the devil, it was working.
Fair haired and green-eyed, she had the soft, pastel allure of a porcelain doll. Her eyebrows, a shade darker than the pale blonde hair styled in a twist beneath a blue felt hat with feathers, were delicately arched. Her cheekbones were sharp and distinguished. There was nary a freckle or blemish to be found on her roses and cream complexion, and her lips were soft and carried a light sheen. The dress she wore had been tailored to fit snugly over her petite frame, with a taffeta bustle to draw focus to curves that Kincaid knew firsthand were greatly exaggerated.
Still, she was undeniably attractive.
Stunning even.
But having touched Joanna’s tangled hair, and kissed the freckles on her nose, and marveled at all of her perfect imperfections, he had a new appreciation for the flower growing wild in an open field over the cultured rose in a glasshouse garden.
