She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. ‘My papa he does not wish me to marry the man I choose, and thus he places me in the convent that the nuns may lock me up and I cannot escape. “Please stay,” she said briefly. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. You are the most beautiful, the most desirable thing I have ever met in this world.
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