His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. When she finally did take her own lover, it was not with a member of the household staff. Most of my people are upstairs dressing for dinner. If they are not obvious errors, they are left as in the original.
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