Chapter Twelve: Dane

I breathed a sigh of relief as we finally arrived at my home. Making small talk with not one but two women, and having to do it as we walked along, had been torturous to me.

Small talk is not my strength—never has been.

But . . . a discussion about Lord Tennyson’s poems—“Mariana” was my favorite—or about Caesar against the Gauls. . . . that kind of talk is my forté.

I’ve yet to meet a lady, Lupine or not, who enjoys these conversations.

For them it’s all gossip, or fashion, or food, or other topics I detest.

Mrs. Huntington, the girls’ stupid mother, was a prime example.

So the walk was unpleasant. I was never so glad to see the palms at my front gate, and the gate itself, bearing the brass plaque with the engraving of “Mon Repos.”

There were two smaller signs:

“Tradesmen Please Use Rear Entrance”

and

“No Trespassing.”

Trespassing.

She, Adara, was trespassing.

Since meeting her she had constantly trespassed on my thoughts.

Perhaps even on my heart . . . .

I began by show