By Anna J. McIntyre
The start of the Coulson Empire, 1918: Mary Ellen’s father didn’t alternate her for a house–exactly. Marrying the rich and good-looking Randall Coulson isn't anything Mary Ellen desires to do, yet being the obedient daughter she concurs to the wedding. Randall Coulson wishes Mary Ellen for one reason–to provide him sons. He has no wish to shape a bond of affection or friendship together with his younger bride. His personal middle is already taken. A bittersweet tale of affection, lies and family members secrets and techniques, occurring in the course of a turbulent interval of yankee historical past, whilst the notion of ladies and their position in society replaced in a single woman’s lifetime.
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Additional info for Coulson's Wife (The Coulson Series, Book 1)
Grey this, and Mr. Grey that, and how was it possible that Annabel hadn‘t seen him at the party? Annabel had shrugged and made some sort of I can‘t imagine type of comment, but it didn‘t matter because Louisa was still nattering on about his smile and his eyes which weregray and oh wasn‘t it just the most marvelous coincidence and oh yes, everyone had noticed that he departed on the arm of a married woman! This last bit did not surprise Annabel. He‘d told her quite plainly that he‘d been cavorting with a married woman before she‘d tripped over him.
He looked so lost in his own thoughts it almost seemed rude to interrupt. And so she waited, watching him with a curious expression, knowing that if he turned to her, he would see the question in her eyes. He never did turn to her, but after a minute or so, he said, ―It‘s different in the morning. The light is flatter. Redder. It catches the mist in the air, almost as if it creeps up from underneath. Everything is new,‖ he said softly. ‖ Annabel‘s breath caught. He sounded so wistful. It made her want to remain right where she was, on the blanket beside him, until the sun started to rise on the eastern horizon.
It reminded him of the war, of all those nights with nothing over his head save for the canopy of a tree. He‘d hated those nights. It didn‘t make much sense that something that brought back memories of war would give him such contentment right now, but not much that went through his head made sense. There didn‘t seem to be much point in questioning it. He closed his eyes. The insides of his eyelids were a brownish black, not at all the same as the thick purple of the night. Darkness had so many colors.