How To Marry a Rake. Deb Marlowe

must be man-made, this perfectly symmetrical open spot in the midst of the wood. The ground was covered in a vibrant carpet of wildflowers, the edges punctuated with rustic, curved seating. Mae sat quietly, off to the right, her fingers drumming on the thick-crusted loaf in her lap. She was clearly not part of the scene—dressed immaculately as she was, from kid boots to her charming, if ineffectual hat, in rich shades of brown and contrasting cream—yet it was as if her very separateness enhanced the image. Bird-song echoed in the glade, but she hadn’t yet broken her bread. She looked lost in thought—and he suffered the sudden urge to ruffle her feathers, yank a lock of that shining hair, flop down next to her and tease her until she confessed what troubled her.

      He shook it off. Breathing deep, Stephen stepped forward. He called out to her before he could change his mind. ‘Mae? Good morning.’