Miss Bradshaw's Bought Betrothal. Virginia HeathЧитать онлайн книгу.
and everything she had dreamed of, so despite the lateness of the hour and the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, Evie felt giddy with success. Sleep would be impossible now, yet it was still far too early, or late depending on your point of view, to wake the servants. There was nothing to stop her exploring the house, though. If this place was to be her temporary home, she might as well find out where everything was.
* * *
Finn wearily finished brushing down his horse and then led it into the stall. He was not angry that there had been nobody waiting in the stables to greet him because nobody had expected him tonight. As far as the staff were concerned, he was supposed to be staying overnight in York and travelling back tomorrow. It had been a last-minute decision to travel home this evening. The noise in the inn and the over-familiarity of the crowded occupants had become cloying and he had needed to escape. Almost two aching hours later and he still did not regret that decision. It might well be two in the morning, but at least he could sleep in his own bed, as far away from people as was humanly possible.
Outside the kitchen door, he pulled off his boots. Stowers, his butler, was too old to be getting out of bed in the small hours and Finn knew that if he got the first whiff he had returned early, the faithful old retainer would insist on attending to him. As he had expected, the house was shrouded in darkness and not a single lamp was lit to ease his way, but he did not bother lighting one. He knew the layout of the place so well he could probably traverse it without incident in his sleep. At the foot of the stairs, something caught his eye and he peered down the hallway. A weak strip of light bled out from under the closed door to the small library. Odd. Perhaps the servants had forgotten to extinguish the light.
The door swung open silently on its well-oiled hinges and the sight beyond rendered him temporarily speechless. A strange woman stood in front of the roaring fireplace, staring into the flames and smiling. Whilst that was shocking in itself, the glow from the fire rendered her billowing nightgown almost translucent and awarded him the wholly unexpected, but not wholly unwelcome, view of her voluptuous figure beneath. It was almost a perfect hourglass. A deliciously rounded bottom, a nipped-in waist and, if he was not mistaken from this odd angle, a magnificent bosom. The sort of figure that would earn her a small fortune as a tavern wench. To torture him further, she bent down to throw more wood on to the flames and the thin fabric moulded to her behind like a second skin, highlighting the way those hips flared and then tapered as his eyes travelled down a shapely pair of legs. After two hours on the road, this unexpected stranger was indeed a sight for sore eyes. Aesthetics aside, she still had no place being where she was.
‘Who are you?’
Her head whipped around and with it a thick, dark plait swung off her shoulder and fell almost to her bottom. One hand automatically went to her heart in shock, drawing his gaze to the magnificent bosom that was indeed there, then her expression changed to annoyance.
‘Oh, Fergus! You gave me a fright.’
‘Fergus?’ If his brother was here, then his first assumption was correct. She was a tavern wench. ‘I am not Fergus.’
The woman had a heart-shaped face which was not classically beautiful, but certainly striking. Her mouth was a little too large for classical proportions, her nose a little too strong, but her eyes? Her eyes were quite lovely. Then they narrowed.
‘Are you drunk, Fergus?’
‘I am not Fergus.’
‘Of course you are and this silly game is not at all funny.’
As Evie said those words she began to feel uncomfortable. The more she looked at the man staring at her in the doorway, the more convinced she became that he might, indeed, not be Fergus.
Although he was the spitting image of Fergus.
Except his features were not as soft. The dark hair similar, but the style different. Fergus’s locks were always ruthlessly pomaded to maintain the fashionable à la Brutus style that was favoured by the majority of the ton. There was no evidence of pomade in this man’s hair and, now that she thought about it, it was longer. It flopped over one eye quite rakishly and had a windswept quality that Fergus would never allow. Dark stubble covered his chin. Another thing that Fergus would never be seen dead with. Even in the worst state of inebriation Fergus still managed to shave. The clothes were all wrong as well. Her fiancé was a bit of a dandy and had a tendency to wear lace and intricately folded knots at his collar. This man’s clothing was more austere with a distinct absence of any froth. And his eyes were slightly darker, his body slightly larger, his posture more commanding. But his gaze was equally as cold. Filling the doorway in his billowing greatcoat, he looked positively menacing.
‘If you are not Fergus, who are you?’ Her voice was pathetically small and uncertain once again.
‘I am his brother. His twin brother. Finnegan.’
Fergus had mentioned in passing he had a married brother, but he had neglected to tell her that he was one of twins. He had also apparently neglected to tell his brother about their visit, hence his unexpected appearance in the middle of the night. ‘Although this is quite unorthodox, Lord Finnegan, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I am Miss Evelyn Bradshaw, Fergus’s fiancée.’
His eyebrows lifted and his eyes insolently swept slowly from her face down her body. They lingered on her chest blatantly for a second before they travelled back up to her eyes again. ‘You are not his type.’
As far as Evie was aware, she was not anyone’s type, but that was by the by. She was not going to get into that sort of discussion with a stranger. ‘I can assure that we are engaged to be married, Lord Finnegan. And as such, for the duration of my stay here and for the sake of propriety, Fergus has taken residence in the local inn.’
His features remained deadpan, but his arms folded across his chest. ‘Has he?’
Evie smiled in a vain attempt to soften the blow she was about to deliver. She did find it very difficult to be assertive, but in this instance she had to do it. ‘I hate to inconvenience you after your late journey, but for the sake of propriety I must insist that you also take yourself directly to the inn as well. My great-aunt and I will be staying here in Stanford House.’
Nerves made her voice wobble and she had the overwhelming urge to curl up into a ball, but, remembering that she was resolved never to be Invisible Evelyn again, she pulled her shoulders back proudly and forced herself to meet his gaze. Several awkward seconds ticked by.
‘He didn’t tell you, did he?’
‘Tell me what?’ Fergus’s double now appeared to be amused and shook his dark head as he stared up at the ceiling, as if he were seeking strength from the lord.
‘This is not Stanford House. This is Matlock House.’ He folded his arms over his impressively broad chest. ‘My house.’
Lost for words, Evie gaped back at him. When she found her voice it came out in a squeak. ‘I have been led to believe that this is my fiancé’s house! He brought me here this very evening and made no mention of the fact that this was your house.’
‘Yes. Well, in my experience, Fergus’s relationship with the truth has always been rather tenuous. He probably brought you here because Stanford House in is no fit state to be inhabited. No doubt he will have constructed a perfectly reasonable-sounding explanation when I confront him about it in the morning. However, right now I am going to bed.’
He turned and, to her utter chagrin, headed directly for the stairs, clutching his boots. ‘You cannot mean to stay here!’ Now the squeak was so high pitched that she sounded like a mouse.
Evie watched him drop the boots loudly and spin slowly to face her as he walked back into the library, his expression part confusion, part outrage. ‘This is my house, madam.’
‘But for propriety’s sake you cannot stay under the same roof as me!’
His