MAGGIE DARLINGTON ROLLED OVER IN bed and squinted into the sunlight pouring through the lace curtains of her bedroom window. As if suddenly realizing where she was, she groaned, spread her fingers wide, and placed both hands over her face. She wordlessly cursed the brilliant sunshine and bemoaned her return to Wentworth Hall, sliding deeper under her floral eiderdown quilt and soft, voluminous bed covers.
If she were in Paris—as she had been only two weeks earlier—the red velvet drapes would still be drawn and she’d be permitted to sleep until noon—at least. To think, she had looked forward to...