“Listen to me. I know very well you can stitch a gown. You could be the best dressmaker in England, and I still wouldn’t permit this.” He reached for her hand and turned it palm side up, like a fortune-teller. With meaningful intent, he brushed his thumb over the calluses on her fingertips, lingering over each proof of her labor. “There’ll be no more of these now.” She was quiet for a moment. “That’s shockingly caring of you.” “It’s not caring.” “Then how would you describe it?” “As . . . something else.” Anything else. Imagining her naked was only natural. Protecting her was his duty. Caring
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