Excerpt of Again and Again by Susan Johnson

Yorkshire, November 1821

The snow had been falling since morning but the coachman
had pressed on through the storm only to have the horses
brought to a halt by impassable roads on the outskirts of
Shipton. Unlike several of the passengers who grumbled
about their altered schedules, Caroline Morrow was more
than happy to descend from the cold, cramped coach and
stumble through the drifts toward the welcoming warmth of
a nearby inn.

Once inside, she shook the snowflakes from her cape, threw
off the hood, and moved through the press of travelers in
the small entryway toward the parlor where she stood as
close to the crackling fire as prudence would allow.
Holding her hands out, she basked in the comforting
warmth. The heavenly possibility of actually sleeping in a
soft bed gave her further reason for gratification.

Lost in her reverie apropos of the pleasures of a real bed
and a hot meal, the familiar voice at first went
unattended. But the deep, distinctive tones eventually
insinuated themselves into her consciousness and she
lifted her head to listen for a moment before discounting
the absurdity of such a coincidence. The buzz of
conversation suddenly swelled when several other
passengers moved into the parlor and the curious voice
from her past disappeared from her thoughts.

She ignored the sound of footfalls behind her a short time
later, not wishing company, but she couldn't ignore the
fragrance drifting into her nostrils, nor the impact the
pine-scented cologne had on her emotions.

She spun around.

"I thought it was you."

He stood no more than a foot away: large, powerful, more
handsome than she remembered, his dark hair damp with
melting snow, his caped riding coat black like his eyes--
and his heart.

The color momentarily drained from her face, but even as
she drew in a fortifying breath her gaze turned chill. "A
pity it's such a small world," she said coolly.

"More like my good fortune it's such a small world."

"Allow me to disagree."

"As usual." His smile was impudent. "What are you doing
here?"

With her initial shock receding, she managed to speak in
as dégagé a tone as he. "Taking refuge from the storm like
you."

"I meant where are you bound?"

"None of your business."

He tipped his head in amused deference. "Have you missed
me?"

"Not in the least."

"I, on the other hand, have missed you terribly."

"I'd hardly think that possible with your busy schedule.
Do you still receive twenty billets-doux a day? Or has the
number risen since you've become an eligible duke?"

"Who says I'm eligible?"

"Are you married then?"

"No."

Her immediate sense of relief annoyed her. "Then you're
eligible regardless of your disreputable life," she noted
tartly, correcting her brief lapse in judgment.

"Don't snap at me, darling. You were the one who ran off
and married."

"I'm not your darling and I didn't run off. I simply
considered it foolish to wait around until you were ready
to give up your profligate ways."

His nostrils flared for a moment; but his voice was bland
when he spoke. "Has married life suited you?"

"I'm divorced."

His eyes widened; divorce was rare--and expensive. He knew
her financial status and as he recalled, her émigré
husband had lost his fortune in the Revolution. "I'm
sorry." When he wasn't. When he felt an elation he hadn't
felt in years.

"You needn't be. I'm quite content."

"You disappeared five years ago. No one knew where."

"I left for the Continent."

"Do you live in Yorkshire now?"

"Yes." She didn't precisely yet, but once she reached her
new employers, she would.

"May I call on you?"

"No." She wasn't about to tell him she was reduced to the
status of governess, her small inheritance dissipated.

"Surely you don't dislike me so."

She took a deep breath and the sudden blush on her cheeks
wasn't from the heat of the fire. "I don't dislike you,
Simon. We just have never suited, that's all."

"I disagree. We suited very well, as I recall." His voice
was velvety and low.

"Sex isn't enough."

A dozen gazes swivelled around at the provocative word and
she turned beet red.

Simon Blair immediately cast his cool, ducal glance on the
curious bystanders. "This is a private conversation," he
said, his voice like the low thunder of distant artillery,
and within moments everyone had backed away. Returning his
attention to her, his mouth curved into a faint
smile. "You were saying?"