Only My Love

Only My Love

The Dennehy Sisters Series

Book One

by

Jo Goodman

USA Today Bestselling Author

ONLY MY LOVE

Reviews & Accolades

"Goodman has a real flair... Witty dialogue, first-rate narrative prose, and clever plotting."

~Publishers Weekly

Previously titled: Wild Sweet Ecstasy

Published by
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-668-8

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Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2014 by Jo Goodman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Only My Love,
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Wild Sweet Ecstasy,
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Prologue

Spring 1875

She was not the sort of woman he usually noticed. Ethan Stone's shaded glance was more likely to alight on a woman with a quick and easy smile and a bit of invitation in her eyes. There was nothing the least inviting about this woman. For one thing, she was serious. Her mouth was flattened by the weight of her thoughts and there was a small vertical crease between her eyebrows. He could not make out the color of her narrowed eyes but the expression was grave and focused somewhere on the wall behind him. If he moved a little to the left her eyes would bore directly through his shoulder. He shifted his weight on the desktop where he was lounging, hitching one leg higher and stretching out the other. The slight movement did not attract her attention and Ethan continued his leisurely assessment, fascinated in a way that was not particularly flattering to his subject.

She wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that sat low on her nose. He didn't see many women wearing glasses, so that she had them at all made her something of an oddity. The manner in which they perched on the end of her nose suggested she didn't need them for anything but reading and writing. Certainly, by the way she stared out over the top of the thin wire frames, she didn't require them for deep thinking.

Her skin was pale, her complexion smooth, and it was possibly her best feature. Her hair
could
have been her best feature but it was a nest for pencils. Ethan counted three of them buried there. Pencils aside, her hair was quite magnificent. She had done what she could, he thought, to make it seem less so. That she was not entirely successful led Ethan to believe it was her one true vanity. An effort had been made to scrape it back tightly, to make it ruthlessly conform to the shape of her head, but pride or sanity had caused her to stop short of that cruelty to herself and to those who looked at her. Rather than being molded to her head, her hair was a soft coppery penumbra of light, a frame of deep red and chestnut for her face. By accident or by design, slender, curling threads of hair had escaped the loose chignon and gently brushed her forehead, her cheeks, and shimmered in the gaslighted room.