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’ ‘Sir!’ came from Trodger, and the booted feet clattered off and out of the front door. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. The one nearest to her, which must lead to the library. Instead of which, more than half an hour has elapsed. Still unconscious of anything he did physically. She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. See? You marry me.
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