The morning sun did not ask for permission before entering the master bedroom of Anderson Hall. It spilled through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains, painting a bright, golden stripe across the carpet and landing boldly on the large four-poster bed.
Ines burrowed deeper into the warmth.
She did not like the sun. Not at this hour. She preferred the darkness, especially when the darkness was warm, solid, and smelled faintly of cedar and sleep.
She buried her head in Carcel's chest.
Her husband, the Duke of Carleton, was a very comfortable pillow. He was lying on his back, his breathing slow and rhythmic. One of his heavy arms was draped protectively over her waist, holding her in place as if she were a treasure he was afraid to lose in his dreams.
Ines sighed contentedly. She nuzzled her nose against the soft linen of his nightshirt. It was peaceful. It was quiet. It was the perfect morning in the countryside.
