Lorena Wood

Lorena had her usual look—the look of a woman who was somewhere else.

She had a fine head of blond hair, whose softness set her apart in a country where most women’s hair had a consistency not much softer than saddle strings. Her cheeks hollowed a little—it gave her a distracting beauty. Her eyes were luminous, amber brown, the color of rich whiskey. For a heartbeat her eyes were all, until she lowered her gaze; then the rest of her came into notice. She was tall enough but not too tall—just the right height to tuck under the chin of a well grown man—and lushly endowed with alluring curves and hollows.

Lorena had to stop as her breath caught suddenly, stabbing at her chest. Her corset stays gouged deep into her ribs. She stood ramrod straight in the peacock- blue traveling suit she wore. It was one that John Tinkersley had bought her when he was still being sweet. Rumpled and melted from an endless day of bouncing over rutted roads in a sweltering coach, she tried to catch her breath. A thin film of grit dusted silk and skin, and wisps of golden mane had come loose from the pins that held hair and hat in place.

"A pleasure, I'm sure," she spoke softly, her voice silky as a southern night. She cocked her chin, pointing her small, straight nose in the air, hoping that she might make herself appear something more than she was. A trifling scar marked the bow of her upper lip, and this she touched self-consciously. Her mouth curled into a tender smile but her glance was skittish, like she was expecting meanness when she extended her hand.