Lords of Scandal: The Beleaguered Lord Bourne / The Enterprising Lord Edward. Кейси МайклсЧитать онлайн книгу.
was to be accomplished in any degree of comfort.
Bride and groom allowed the short journey to pass in silence and parted from each other’s company without regret to enter separate bedrooms and await the arrival of the servants bearing dry clothing.
A scant half hour later—the earl noting the new Lady Bourne’s promptness with a pleasure he saw no need to convey to her—they were finally on their way, with Kit already bored with the confinement of the coach and wishing himself astride the spirited black stallion tied to the back of the coach and Jennie idly stroking a strange wooden carving she held lovingly in her gloved hands.
His own thoughts holding no real appeal, Kit reluctantly turned his attention to the girl perched so stiffly beside him, and his gaze alighted on the carving. “And do you plan to plummet me with that maltreated tree branch if my baser instincts surface and I attempt to ravish you here in this coach?”
Jennie gave the carving a considering look before turning her head to stare at her husband as if weighing her chances of success if she was forced to defend herself before slowly shaking her head and confessing, “I saw the carving as I passed by the main saloon and couldn’t resist taking it with me as a remembrance of home.”
“You consider Bourne Manor to be your home?” Kit questioned, raising his brows so that furrows formed on his smooth forehead.
Jennie shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, replying, “The late earl encouraged me to think of Bourne Manor that way, and I was accustomed to being welcomed almost as a member of the family. He had no children, you know, and he was frightfully lonely when his wife died five years ago.”
Noticing the way Jennie’s tightly controlled features relaxed as she spoke of his uncle, Kit pressed on with his questions, not overly interested but conceding that a pleasant conversation was as good a time-passer as anything else he could think of at the moment. “But why that truly homely carving? You could have had your pick of the manor rather than settling for one of the scores of carvings—all looking very much like misshapen turtles with udders, by the way—that litter the place.”
Jennie’s shoulders straightened as she took exception to Kit’s insulting remark. “I’ll have you know that this carving—indeed, all the carvings—are very creditable renditions of Amy Belinda, your uncle’s favorite model. He took great pride in his work, and I’ll not sit idly by and let you malign his efforts.”
“Amy Belinda?” Kit nudged.
“His pet cow,” Jennie informed him matter-of-factly.
“Of course,” her husband responded in a choked voice. “His pet cow.” His face mirroring his astonishment, Kit prized the carving from Jennie’s grasp and raised his quizzing glass to study Amy Belinda from various angles—none of which provided a clue as to which end depicted the cow’s front end. “M’uncle carved this?” he puzzled. “Good God—he must have been lonely!”
“He was not!” Jennie protested angrily. “At least he wasn’t once I introduced him to Will Plum. Poor man,” she mused reflectively. “Will lost his wife about the same time as the earl, and as he was too old to work as a carpenter anymore he felt he had nothing left to live for.
“Well,” she went on, heedless of her husband’s in credulous expression, “any fool could see the two men needed each other, and once I put Will in the earl’s way the two of them became the best of good friends. Will taught the earl woodcarving and your uncle thought it was just grand to capture his dearest Amy Belinda in all of her many moods.”
“Cows have moods?” Kit interrupted, not that Jennie noticed.
“Their friendship lasted for five years, until old Will finally died, your uncle surviving him by only a month. Amy Belinda didn’t last much longer, poor dear,” she added thoughtfully, “but I imagine that was only to be expected.”
“Definitely,” the earl agreed, trying hard to contain his mirth. “I had no idea I had wed such a clever puss—matching such disparate persons as my uncle and the estimable Will Plum with such gratifying results. Is this a special talent of yours, or was old Will a fluke?”
Jennie knew Kit was teasing her, but she refused to allow it to rankle. She had always prided herself on her ability to settle people into niches she personally carved out for them, deriving satisfaction by aiding her fellow human beings.
Her maid, Goldie, was a prime example of the success of her humanitarian endeavors, and so she proceeded to inform the scoffing earl. “She was totally hopeless in the dairy, you understand, being mortally afraid of cows.”
“Sad,” Kit commented, clucking his tongue in commiseration.
“Poor Goldie. She felt herself to be an abject failure, and her mother, a widow and dependent on Goldie for her support, came to me and begged me to take her daughter in hand.”
“Naturally you agreed,” Kit interjected cheerfully.
“But of course—how could anyone so petitioned do anything else?” Jennie countered emphatically. “We tried Goldie in the laundry, but the soap made her sneeze, and even I could find little to praise in her needlework. She was so dejected we could scarcely catch a glimpse of her grandest possession, for she smiled so seldom. She has a truly magnificent gold tooth smack in the front of her mouth, you know, which is why we call her Goldie even though her name is Bertha.”
“This is a most affecting story. I can only wonder if I am strong enough to hear the rest,” lamented the grinning earl, earning himself a killing glance from his new bride.
“I’ll disregard your sarcastic attempt at humor, if only to prove my point,” she told him crushingly.
“Oh? There’s a point?” Kit exclaimed in disbelief. “How gratifying.”
“Of course there is. The point is that there is a place for everyone if one but takes the time to seek it out. In Goldie’s case the search was a bit longer than usual, as she soon proved incapable of serving at table without overturning the soup tureen or losing her grip on a stack of dirty plates. But I really had hopes for her as a kitchen assistant—you know, peeling vegetables and chopping things and such—until Papa’s silly French chef threatened to hand in his notice if Goldie wasn’t permanently removed from his sight.”
“Got on the bad side of the fellow, I assume?” Kit opined, and Jennie vigorously nodded her agreement.
“I still don’t see what all the fuss was about,” she ended, her expression one of sublime innocence. “After all, it wasn’t as if his mustache wouldn’t grow back eventually. He removed the rest of it after Goldie’s little accident with the knife, you see, which was just as well considering he looked rather lopsided with half of the droopy thing gone.”
That did it. Kit was unable to contain his mirth any longer, and his full, masculine laugh reverberated inside the closed coach as he gave voice to his amusement.
Within seconds Jennie’s delicious-sounding giggles blended with her husband’s throaty chuckles as the two leaned against each other for support as they enjoyed the joke—causing the coachman to remark later to the postilion that Lord and Lady Bourne seemed to be taking to each other right quick-like, which was a good thing considering they was bracketed like it or nay.
After a quick stop for luncheon Jennie allowed herself to be talked into resting her head on her husband’s broad shoulder, and the rest of the journey passed with Lord Bourne alternately gazing dolefully at the scenery passing by outside his window and doing his best to ignore the soft, warm bundle nestled so trustingly against his chest.
JENNIE FELT she had somehow been transported to another world. It wasn’t as if her father’s house had not been comfortable, and she had run tame at Bourne Manor for as long as she could remember, but nothing in her experience had prepared her for the opulence of the Bourne mansion—no stretch of the imagination could convince her that this massive structure was any ordinary townhouse.
Bourne Manor had been furnished with an eye for