Because there's something different about John Smith. It's clear he's keeping secrets And that reason has something to do with Sophie and Stonegate Farm. Now her dream is becoming a nightmare. Who is John Smith? Why does he make feel so out of control? And why is she beginning to suspect that this mysterious stranger will put in jeopardy everything she's dreamed of—maybe even her own life?
The story line hinges on one of the characters behaving in a way I can only assume the author took a bet that she could write a book where the ending was obvious from the beginning. Unfortunately, this is not only predictable, but mediocre. He was a slight lad, looking to be not much older than seventeen or eighteen. He was delicately made, with a narrow foot, a well-shaped leg beneath clocked hose, neat brown breeches and coat, and a cap perched atop his rich brown locks.
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His shoulders were narrow and his hands small but well formed, devoid of jewelry or adornment. After a moment he nodded.
Julian Smith, sir. Everyone around here does. It was up to the lad, of course.
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Sir Neville Pinworth was known for his odd tastes, and he had more blunt than almost the entire town of Hampton Regis. If Julian Smith were to catch his eye, a comfortable future for the lad would be ensured. If he liked that sort of thing. He made it his duty not to pass judgment, particularly on men like Pinworth who could buy and sell him five times over, whose goodwill was almost a requirement for those doing business in Hampton Regis. What Sir Neville found to warm his bed was his own concern.
The Fowl and Feathers was a prosperous enough business; surely it could afford another pair of hands and a strong back, even if the lad looked a bit frail. If Mowbray knew his wife, Bessie would take the boy to her massive bosom, just as she took all the strays who wandered through their tavern. You look like a strong breeze could blow you away. He shoved a hand through his hair, grimacing to himself as he felt the short-cropped ends.
It was undoubtedly cooler this way, he thought, rubbing an arm across his sweating forehead. If only he dared remove his jacket.
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Mowbray looked embarrassed, his bluff, hearty face reddening. I expect we can use the help.
If only it were so easy. If only he could have just a few days of rest, of decent food, of freedom from having to look over his shoulder to see whether he was being followed. Agnes, one of the overfed serving wenches, breezed through the kitchen door, her plump cheeks red with excitement, her massive bosom heaving. Her eyes immediately went to Julian, and he controlled his instinctive discomfort with an effort.
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The three of them are wanting supper, and French brandy, and God knows what else. Bessie glanced up from the hearth, her broad face troubled.
Send the boy up with the brandy. If anything happens to those glasse s, Mowbray would have your hide. Mine as well. He grinned.
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Bessie gave him a playful swat with her beefy hand. And keep an eye out for Sir Neville. Just be polite and keep your distance. He entered unobserved, his large eyes taking in the full glory of Sir Neville and his elegant guest, clearly in the midst of a flirtation. Sir Neville was dressed in puce.
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Lace cascaded from his sleeves, adorned his neckcloth, dripped from his fingers. His thinning hair was brushed into a windswept style and faintly tinged with pink, and his complexion owed more to artifice than to nature, with a dead-white pallor offset by several cleverly placed beauty marks.