Good lord, how could she ever have thought this man was Nicholas Seaton? He couldn’t be, could he? It was impossible. He was too big. Too strong. Too old. Too highborn. Too…everything. And yet…St. Clare’s eyes were the same unique shade of stormy gray as Nicholas Seaton’s, and they held within their depths that peculiar mix of humor, bitterness, and anguish that Nicholas’s had had all those years ago at Beasley Park. And he smelled like Nicholas, too. Not the expensive shaving soap—Nicholas had never had anything half so fine—but the fragrance of horses and leather and that other scent that
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