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“What kind of a man is he,” McKenna interrupted, “that he makes no objection when he sees you being escorted through the village by someone like me?” “A trusting one. Lord Sandridge and I have a certain understanding—we allow each other as much freedom as is needed. It’s a very enlightened arrangement.” “Enlightened,” he repeated with ill-concealed contempt. “Sandridge is a fool. And if I were in his place, you wouldn’t even be here.” “Where would I be, then?” she asked pertly. “At home, I suppose, mending your shirt cuffs?” “No, in my bed. Under me.” — Lisa Kleypas
What kind of a man is he,” McKenna interrupted, “that he makes no objection when he sees you being escorted through the village by someone like me?”
“A trusting one. Lord Sandridge and I have a certain understanding—we allow each other as much freedom as is needed. It’s a very enlightened arrangement.”
“Enlightened,” he repeated with ill-concealed contempt. “Sandridge is a fool. And if I were in his place, you wouldn’t even be here.”
“Where would I be, then?” she asked pertly. “At home, I suppose, mending your shirt cuffs?”
“No, in my bed. Under me.