Regency Society Collection Part 2. Ann LethbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
time. He raised a hand in farewell. Her heart gave a sweet little lurch, which once more set her stomach dancing.
The horse broke into a trot and plunged into the trees. Robert could hear the sound of twigs snapping even as, utterly bemused, he followed in its wake. By the time he reached the clearing, the spirited gelding and its rider had disappeared.
A strange little thing, this Miss Wynchwood. In her drab brown clothing, she reminded him of some wild woodland creature ready to run at a sound. Certainly no beauty—her eyes were too large, the colour changing with her thoughts from the bluish-grey of clouds to the grey-green of a wind-swept ocean. Her tragic mouth took up far too much of her pixie face.
He’d wanted to kiss that mouth and make it tremble with desire instead of fear. He’d longed to release the tightly coiled hair at her nape and see it fall around her face. Pulled back, it did nothing to improve her looks. And yet she was oddly alluring.
Her style of conversation left much to be desired, though. Short and sharp and rude. Clearly a spoiled rich miss who needed a lesson in manners. Her Grace would not have tolerated such abruptness from one of Robert’s sisters.
A dull stab of pain caught him off guard. Hades. Even now thoughts of home sneaked unwanted into his mind. He stared at the mud splattering the door of his cottage. What a reckless little cross-patch to ride at such speed through the woods. He groaned. And quite likely to report him to Lord Wynchwood for taking her to task.
Damnation. What the hell had he said?
He’d been terrified she’d fall in the river, furious at her carelessness. He’d spoken harshly. He’d made her angry.
Angry and woman did not mix well.
He shouldered his way into the hut he called home and kicked the door shut. Damn, it was cold, but at least he had a roof over his head. He sorted through his bedclothes on the cot against the wall, found his jacket and shrugged into the coarse fabric. He stirred the embers to get the fire going and hung the kettle on the crane. He’d been making tea moments before running outside because he thought the walls were collapsing. Moments before he’d ripped into the girl whose family owned these woods like a duke’s son instead of a servant. He’d been scathing when he should have thanked her for the honour her horse’s hooves had paid to his dwelling, or at least kept his tongue behind his teeth.
Such a small, fragile thing making all that rumpus. A good wind and she’d blow away. And when he boosted her on to her horse, she’d weighed no more than a child. Her eyes, though, had looked at him in the way of a woman. And his body had responded with interest. He cursed.
This was the best position he’d found in over two years and he’d be a fool to lose it because of a slip of a girl.
He stabbed the fire. Sparks flew. His nostrils filled with the scent of ashes. If he wasn’t mistaken, once he’d cooled down, he’d treated her the way he treated his sisters, with amused tolerance. No wonder she’d been annoyed. No doubt he’d be apologising tomorrow. Unless she had him turned off.
Blast. For the first time he’d found a place with a chance for advancement and enough wages to start paying off some of his debts and he’d scolded his employer’s niece.
Would he never come to terms with his new position in life?
He poured boiling water into the teapot and took it to the table set with a supper of bread and cheese. He cut a hunk of bread and skewered it with his knife. He took a bite and munched it slowly.
If there was a next time, he’d be more careful. He’d remember his place.
‘There you are, Miss Frederica.’ The butler, Mr Sniv-ely, emerged from the shadows at the bottom of the staircase. He gave her a small smile. ‘I thought I better warn you, Lord Wynchwood is asking for you. He is in his study.’
Frederica winced. ‘Thank you, S-Snively. What is his current m-mood?’
Snively’s muddy eyes twinkled, but there was sadness in them too. ‘He’s seems a little irritated, miss. Not his normal sunny self.’ He winked.
She almost laughed. ‘It’s probably his g-gout.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘And the w-weather. And the state of the Funds.’
‘Yes, miss. And I gather he’s lost his glasses.’
She grinned. ‘Again. I’ll go to him the moment I am changed.’
Snively shook his head and the wrinkles in his bulldog face seemed to deepen. ‘No point, miss, he knows you took Pippin.’
Dash it all. One of the grooms must have reported her hasty departure. She sighed. ‘I’ll go right away. Thank you, Snively.’
He looked inclined to speak, then pressed his lips together.
‘Is there s-something else?’
‘His lordship received a letter from a London lawyer yesterday. It seems to have put him in a bit of a fuss. Made him fidgety.’ Snively sounded worried. ‘I wondered if he said anything about it?’
Uncle Mortimer was always fidgety. She stripped off her gloves and bonnet and handed them to him. ‘Perhaps Mr Simon Bracewell is in need of funds again. Or perhaps it is merely excitement over my p-pending nuptials.’
Snively’s dropping jaw was more than satisfying. He looked as horrified as she felt. He recovered quickly, smoothing his face into its customary bland butler’s mask. But his flinty eyes told a different story. ‘Is it appropriate to offer my congratulations?’
‘N-not really.’ All the frustration she’d felt when Uncle Mortimer made the announcement swept over her. ‘I’m to m-marry my cousin S-Simon.’ After years of him indicating he wished she wasn’t part of his family at all.
His eyes widened. His mouth grew grim. ‘Oh, no.’
She took a huge breath. ‘Precisely.’ Unable to bring herself to attempt another word, she headed for the study to see what Great-Uncle Mortimer wanted. Steps dragging, she traversed the brown runner covering a strip of ancient flagstones. This part of Wynchwood Hall always struck a chill on her skin as if damp clung to the walls like slime on a stagnant pond.
A quick breath, a light knock on the study door and she strode in.
Great-Uncle Mortimer sat in a wing chair beside the fire, a shawl around his shoulders, his feet immersed in a white china bowl full of steaming water and a mustard plaster on his chest.
In his old-fashioned wig, his nose pink from a cold and his short-sighted eyes peering over his spectacles at the letter in his hand, he looked more like a mole than usual.
He glanced up and shoved the paper down the side of the chair. Was that the lawyer’s letter to which Sniv-ely referred? Or another letter from Simon begging for funds?
‘Shut the door, girl. Do you want me to perish of the ague?’
She whisked the door shut and winced as the curtains at the windows rippled.
‘The draught,’ he moaned.
‘Sorry, Uncle.’
‘I don’t know what it is about you, girl. Dashing about the countryside, leaving doors open on ailing relatives. You are supposed to make yourself useful, not overset my nerves. Have you learned nothing?’
He put a hand up to forestall her defence. ‘What sort of start sent you racing off this morning? I needed you here.’
Of all her so-called relatives, she liked her uncle the best since he rarely had enough energy to notice her existence.
‘I d-don’t—’
‘Don’t know? You must know.’
She