She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly. She saw his eyes glaze over. “I would marry your sister anyhow, under any circumstances,” he answered. “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. He felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping away.
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