Page 135 of Dare to Love Me

No, actually. I think my flat could fit inside it, with space left over for a small Greggs.

I clutch the doorframe, experiencing a violent case of bathroom envy.

The bath is massive—like someone looked at a normal bath and thought,But what if we made it big enough for an orgy?One of those dramatic, claw-footed, Regency-era monstrosities, the kind of tub that demands you lounge in it, preferably while sipping champagne.

There’s no way Edward uses it. He’s a shower man—efficient, practical, no time for leisurely soaks.

Right, adding “bath time with Edward” to my to-do list.

This place has so many surfaces that need christening. At this rate, I can cancel my gym membership—who needs HIIT classes when you’re regularly climbing a surgeon?

I wander back into his bedroom, running my fingers along his bookshelf, which—unsurprisingly—is stacked with intimidating material. Medical journals and what appears to be the complete works of every dead important person who ever wrote anything.

My gaze drifts toward his wardrobe.

Ishouldn’t.

I really,reallyshouldn’t.

But after the waistcoat and the “Very good, my darling” what’s a little harmless snooping? It’s just clothes. Nothing scandalous.

I pull open the first door.

It’s 90 percent suits. Rows of jackets and trousers in varying shades of blue, gray, and brown.

There’s a whole section dedicated exclusively to cashmere jumpers. They’re so soft I briefly consider burrowing into them like some sort of naked mole-rat.

The organization is alarming. He even has specific hangers for different types of clothing. Who has a fucking hanging system?

I don’t know whether I want to kiss him senseless or mess up his sock drawer just to see what happens.

Okay, after this, I’m done snooping.

I open the next wardrobe.

And freeze.

A small section ofwomen’sclothing.

My heart does a stutter as my brain slowly catches up with what I’m looking at.

These are Millie’s.

Beautiful, flowing dresses, probably from whatever boutique Kate Middleton shops at. Not a single mini skirt. Not even a scrap of denim.

Just long, elegant things that belonged to a long, elegant woman.

I force myself to swallow the sudden lump in my throat. Is it weird he still has them?

I hesitate, then—almost without thinking—pull one out, holding it up to myself in the mirror.

Guilt twists in my stomach.

What the hell am I doing?

Does this make me an asshole? Rummaging through a dead woman’s wardrobe?

My fingers tremble against the fabric, the silk cool against my skin. I don’t know why my hands are shaking. Or why this unsettles me so much.