Excerpt of One Night His Lady by Sofie Darling

A lone figure a hundred or so meters away appeared at the edge of Lucien’s vision. A woman. Even from this distance, he could see she was elegant of form. Her hand shielded her eyes from the sun as her gaze cast about, searching for someone.

An ineffable but distinct feeling of recognition pinged inside him. The way she held herself… Familiar.

He grabbed a mattock and set about digging up a patch of weeds that had sprung up between the vines he was attending, determined to rid his mind of the notion. But it wasn’t so easily displaced. This was the second time today he’d thought of her.

Why?

It was simple.

All this marriage talk.

His jaw clenched as a bitter tide surged through his body. He knew by now to let the feeling run its course. It would eventually fade and grow slack. Like the tide, the memory of her was high, low, or slack, but never entirely gone. No use fighting it.

The woman’s light step sounded behind him. Within the narrow row, she was only a few feet removed. He hadn’t been this aware of a woman since… A twig snapped. He wouldn’t turn, though curiosity demanded confirmation it wasn’t her. 

A sudden flurry of rustling silk…a muted thud…a pained “Oof!”

Lucien swung around and found the woman on the ground, crumpled gray velvet skirts forming a nest around her. He couldn’t yet see her face, only the top of her light purple bonnet as she set about dusting off her hands.

“Are you injured?” he called down. He wanted her to look up. He wanted to see her face. Something about her had his brow furrowed with more than concern for a stranger.

A bemused laugh floated up, and every nerve ending in his body sprang to life. That laugh… The way it sounded deep in the back of her throat… 

He’d known a woman with a laugh like that. He’d even made her his wife.

Or thought he had.

“Not at all,” she said. Still, she hadn’t shown him her face. “I tripped over a root.”

Her voice matched her laugh, deep and husky, foreign, too. Spanish, perhaps.

Spanish.

He wouldn’t hold it against this woman that she was Spanish, like… 

Her.

He shed his dirty work gloves and extended his hand. “Please allow me to assist you to your feet.”

Without looking up, she took the proffered hand. How light and delicate were her fingers, like a bird sitting in his palm. A frisson of…anticipation?…streaked through him, and his body felt lit up from within.

At last, her face lifted, a sheepish smile curving her mouth. “Thank—” Her face froze into the memory of a smile, and time slowed into a blur.

Lucien wasn’t sure what happened to his breath, only that it was neither entering nor exiting his lungs. A series of images flashed before him, of her face—of this face… Plum lips curved into a smile, half shy, half flirtatious, the sort of smile only a young lady on the cusp of womanhood could gift a man… Eyes half-lidded with longing… Mouth parted on a quick gasp, exhaling the words, “More…again…”

A face he thought he’d never see again.

A face he prayed he’d never see again.

It couldn’t be…her.

“You,” fell from her shocked lips.

She tried to snatch her hand back. Instinctively, his grip tightened into a vise as another feeling pushed through the shock.

The feeling that had taken deep root over the four years since he’d last seen her face.

Fury.

The sort that didn’t burn bright, but low and long and didn’t let up, ever.

“Eva,” he growled.