A Winter Wedding: Strangers at the Altar / The Warrior's Winter Bride. Marguerite Kaye

inarticulate in her life. Seeing with some surprise that her sherry glass was empty, Ainsley reached for the decanter and topped it up, taking another fortifying gulp. ‘Felicity said that— Felicity suggested that— She said...’ She took another sip of sherry. ‘Felicity was concerned that I had not the experience to answer some of the more intimate queries made of Madame Hera. I agreed with her, but I thought—I was certain that in all other instances, my advice was sound.’

      Ainsley took another sip of sherry. It was really rather good sherry. She took another sip. ‘Then earlier today, when I was mulling over the contents of another letter, I began to wonder if perhaps I had been a little biased. Failing to take account the other side of the problem. A little. And then, when you read that letter out I realised that—that perhaps you were right. To a degree.’

      Innes looked as confused by this rambling explanation as she felt. ‘I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand why this led you to confess your secret identity.’

      Ainsley tried to sort out the tangle of threads in her head into some sort of logical order. ‘These letters are written by real women with real problems. They are not printed in the journal to titillate, nor to provide some sort of vicarious enjoyment to readers who can congratulate themselves on their own superior, problem-free lives. The letters that are printed are chosen because the problems posed are sadly commonplace.’ She swallowed the remainder of her sherry and topped her glass up once more, grimacing. ‘I didn’t mean Madame Hera to sound like a shrew.’

      ‘Well, I didn’t mean to sound like a pompous git when I criticised your advice,’ Innes said ruefully. ‘You’ve quite thrown me.’

      His honesty disarmed her. That, and the sherry. And that smile of his, which was really just as warming as the sherry. Ainsley took another sip of her drink. ‘Do you really want to know why I told you?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Even if it is embarrassing?’

      ‘Now I’m intrigued.’

      ‘Really?’ Ainsley eyed him warily. ‘You’re not angry?’

      ‘I’m not sure what I am, but I’m definitely not angry.’

      ‘I wonder if Felicity was right,’ Ainsley said, raising her glass, her mood lightening considerably.

      ‘Felicity again. I think I would like to meet her.’

      ‘Then you must find an excuse to invite her here. A party. The welcoming thing. If you deign to listen to my advice. Oh, dear, now I sound like a shrew again.’

      ‘Not a shrew, but you can be extremely prickly.’

      ‘Like a hedgehog, you mean?’

      ‘More like a porcupine. I am rather fond of porcupines.’

      ‘That is downright perverse.’ Ainsley helped herself to more sherry and topped up Innes’s glass, even though it was virtually untouched. ‘Do you really mean to invite Felicity? She is most keen to meet you.’

      ‘No doubt she wishes to make sure I am being a good husband.’

      ‘Well, you couldn’t be worse than the last one, that is for sure,’ Ainsley said. ‘Sorry. Actually, I’m not really.’ She sipped her sherry contemplatively. ‘Anyway, she’s not so much interested in your husbandly qualities, since she knows this is a business arrangement.’ She wriggled back in her chair, because despite the thin calico of her gown, the heat from the fire was making her face flush. ‘Now I suppose you want to know what she is interested in.’

      Innes, who had been inspecting the sherry decanter, which seemed to have almost emptied itself, put it rather selfishly down on the table out of her reach. ‘I do,’ he said, ‘but first I’d like to know why you confessed to being Madame Hera. You still haven’t yet told me, in case you’d forgotten.’

      ‘Aha! That’s where you’re wrong,’ Ainsley exclaimed with a triumphant wave of her hand, ‘because the two things are inexpressibly—no, inex—inextricably linked.’ She picked up her glass, remembered it was empty and placed it very carefully back down again, because the side table had developed a wobble. Then, realising she had slumped unbecomingly back in her chair, she struggled upright, leaning forward confidentially. ‘Those letters. The intimate ones to Madame Hera. They are all about marital—no, lovemaking. And—and the acquisition of womanly wiles. Felicity fears that I do not know enough about such things to be of any value, and I fear she is right. Are you perfectly well? Only your face has gone sort of fuzzy.’

      Innes leaned forward. ‘Better?’

      Ainsley nodded. ‘Do you know you have a charming smile?’

      ‘Only because I am charmed by you.’

      She giggled. ‘Felicity said I should let you have your wicked way with me, and that you sounded like the kind of man who would not expect me to—to lie back and think of Scotland. And she said that we needed something to while away the long dark nights in this godforsaken place—though I don’t think it is godforsaken, actually—and she said that I needed some lessons in—in fun. And pleasure. Do you have a kilt?’

      ‘I do. Does Felicity’s idea of fun and pleasure involve dressing up?’

      Ainsley giggled. ‘Not Felicity’s idea—that was mine. I think you have a fine pair of legs, Innes Drummond. I would like to see you in Highland dress. But we are straying from the point, you know. Is there any more sherry?’

      ‘No.’

      Ainsley frowned over at the decanter. It seemed to her that it was not completely empty. Then she shrugged. ‘Oh, well. What was I— Oh, yes, what Felicity said. She said that you would be well placed to teach me about womanly wiles and such—though I don’t think she called it that, zactly—exactly—and I don’t know how she knew this, for she has not met you, and all I told her was that you kissed very nicely, which you know you do...’

      ‘Only because you kiss me so very nicely back.’

      ‘Really?’ Ainsley smiled beatifically. ‘What a lovely thing to say.’

      ‘And true, into the bargain.’ Innes took her hand. ‘So this Felicity of yours believes that you need to be inducted into the palace of pleasure.’

      ‘Palace of pleasure. I like that. Would you mind if Madame Hera borrowed it?’

      ‘I would be honoured.’

      ‘What would you say if I told you that Felicity also suggested I use you to assist me in finding answers to some of Madame Hera’s problems?’

      ‘You mean, provide you with practical experience of the solutions?’

      Ainsley nodded sagely. ‘You would be insulted, wouldn’t you? That’s what I told Felicity, that you would be insulted.’

      ‘Would you be taking part in this experiment merely for the sake of obtaining better advice?’

      ‘No.’ She stared down at her hands. Despite the tingling, and the fuzziness and the warmth induced by the sherry, this was still proving surprisingly difficult, but she was determined to bring this embarrassing conversation to an end, one way or another. ‘The reason I told you,’ she said, ‘about Madame Hera, I mean. It wasn’t only that you were right about the advice I was dispensing, it was—it was—it was earlier. Me. When you kissed me. It was because I— Felicity says that he took away all my self-respect. John. My husband. Self-respect, that’s what she called it. I don’t know what to call it. I don’t want to talk about it. But when you kissed me, it made me feel— I liked it. I liked it a lot. But then I remembered, you see. Him. What happened. Didn’t happen. And it made me stop liking what you were doing and thinking about then, and him, and it wasn’t that I think you’re the same, you’re so different, and he never, but— Well, that was it. That’s what happened. Are you angry?’

      She looked up. His eyes were stormy. ‘No,’ Innes said quickly. ‘I’m not angry