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nightgown with a touch of lace at the throat and sleeves. She put it on and lay down. |
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She couldn't sleep. Her experiences in the past weren't what preyed on her mind. Nor was her frustration at being unable to remember the details of Pierce's screenplay. |
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Nor, for a change, was it her nightmare of that cursed Pierce's voice commanding her, "You must right a grievous wrong." |
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Instead, she kept reliving the kisses she'd shared with Thorn. His caresses, his heated, arousing touches. |
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If only he were more like Matilda's Thorn. If only . . . She drifted, finally, to sleep. |
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Groggily, Mariah sat up in bed. "Yes?" she croaked. |
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"It is morning. Get up, please." The sound of hurrying footsteps on the wooden floor outside her room receded quickly. |
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At least René had been polite, she thought as she pulled herself from bed. He'd said please. |
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She didn't feel polite herself. |
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She wondered if Thorn was awake, or if he let his servants get breakfast ready before he deigned to arise. |
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Somehow, she doubted that. He was probably already out in the forest flicking knives at poor, defenseless bunnies. |
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She could only guess that it was dawn. With the shutters closed the light coming in was faint. |
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She was a servant, after all. She'd been coddled the previous morning by being allowed to sleep in, but that had to be an aberration. She was expected to work. |
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And she'd once considered dawn the time of day when only others awoke. |
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If she were home, she'd drag herself to the microwave and put in some instant flavored coffee. Then, she'd go down the hall to the bathroom, use its facilities, shower and put on her makeup. She'd . . . But she wasn't home. She was here. And now. |
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She wouldn't get coffee; they had tea. She'd have to make |
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