A Most Unconventional Match
Seven years later Elizabeth Wellingford Lowery stood in her studio, brush in hand as she focused on the play of light across the flower in the vase on her worktable.
If she blocked out everything but the change of hues painted across the flower's surface by the ebb and flow of the clouds in the sky outside her window, she might be able to keep out of consciousness for a little longer the bitter awareness that her life had crumbled into pieces.
She should be able to concentrate. She always painted this time of the morning, while the northern light remained steady, often becoming so absorbed in her work she forgot to stop for nuncheon.
How often had Everitt had to knock at that door and come in to collect her? Her heart squeezed in another spasm of grief as she recalled how he'd approach her, a teasing smile on his careworn face as he coaxed her to put d ... read full excerpt from A Most Unconventional Match ebook
