The Wedding Game. Christine MerrillЧитать онлайн книгу.
look forward at her sister, before turning back to her. ‘While others, even though they are blest with many of the same gifts, lack a certain something.’ He shrugged. ‘Confidence, perhaps? That natural ease amongst people. As a result, they are quite unfairly overlooked by gentlemen when it comes time to marry.’
She bit her lip before she could blurt that her sister’s inability to string two sentences together was not actually feminine wisdom masking some sort of magical self-assurance. It was as she’d often suspected: though some might call Belle a fool, it was the men chasing her who were the idiots. And she was speaking to their king. ‘Suppose these poor, neglected unfortunates you describe are quite happy with their lot?’ Her tone rose slightly. ‘Perhaps, having met the gentlemen of London society, they would much rather remain single than spend the rest of their lives pretending an unworthy man is not just their equal, but their divinely ordained superior?’
Now she definitely saw anger in his eyes, but it was stifled almost as quickly as his earlier annoyance. He sucked in his lips for a moment, biting back the words he wanted to say, burying his true feelings. He was clever enough to think before he spoke. But it proved his amiable courtesy was little more than a thin veneer that might peel away if she continued to pry at it.
‘Then...’ he said, pausing again, ‘I would say that...’ another pause ‘...if they were truly content with their unmarried status, they would not find it necessary to giggle unceasingly, to flap their fans like deranged parrots and orchestrate accidents to call attention to themselves.’
‘Accidents like this, you mean?’ She brought her riding crop down in one swift motion, slapping the tip of it against his horse’s flank with a force equivalent to a wasp sting.
The enormous grey obliged with an irate whinny and reared.
His rider, who had been far too occupied with whatever condescending response he had been composing in his head, lost his grip on the reins and landed on the tan-covered trail behind his horse.
A few heads turned to stare at the man sitting in the mud. But not nearly enough of them, in Amy’s opinion. This minor embarrassment might go largely unnoticed if she did not help it along. ‘Mr Templeton,’ she sang out in a shrieking soprano. ‘Oh, dear. Mr Templeton! Mr Lovell has fallen from his horse! Someone help him, I pray.’
‘I am fine.’ He stood to prove the fact, one hand in the air in a self-deprecating wave to show the mildest embarrassment. But she was close enough to hear shattered pride in each of the three words. He followed them with a wry smile and an admonition. ‘Really, Miss Summoner. Do not distress yourself on my account. There is nothing to worry about.’
But the look he gave her said something far different.
You have nothing to worry about, yet.
Ben stared out of the window of his rooms at the busy crowds below him on Bond Street, contemplating his future. Hopefully, it would be devoid of the humiliation he had experienced on yesterday’s ride in Hyde Park.
He was an expert horseman, able to handle even the most spirited cattle with ease. But after five minutes of conversation with Miss Amelia Summoner he had been displayed before all of London society as a man who could not hold his seat on a walk down a bridle path. Worst of all, her sister had turned back to see him muddied and bruised. Her laughter at his predicament was a hundred times more painful than the fall had been.
If the experience in Rotten Row had gained him anything, it was proof that his friend Templeton was only partly correct in his assessment of Miss Summoner. Ben could see no sign that she was romantically attracted to him or anyone else. But it seemed that she was, in some way, obsessed with him. Her fixation bordered almost on mania. Could it be an untreated madness, or was there something he had done to set her off? He could not think what that might be. She had seemed set against him, even before an introduction was made. Perhaps she had chosen him at random to bear the brunt of her jealousy over her sister’s success. Or maybe she simply hated men.
After ten years in the thrall of one, he was more than wary of the focused attentions of overly clever women. At first he had been drawn to Cassandra’s intellect and aspired to become her equal. To be worthy of such a woman, a man had to strive for constant improvement.
The day had come when he’d finally been ready for the verbal fencing matches he’d dreamed of. He’d honed his wits to a rapier point only to discover she was wielding a stiletto. She had made him suffer for his impudence in believing he could ever be her master.
Never again.
Such women might make the best mistresses. Like the mote in Miss Amelia’s eye, even their flaws seemed to sparkle with a tempting vivacity. But now that he meant to marry, it would be to the quiet beauty of an Arabella. It would be like coming home to a house filled with fresh flowers, each day. Just the thought of her smile made the tensions in his soul relax. After what he had been through, he deserved peace.
It did not matter what fate Amelia Summoner planned for him. He wanted no part of it. But in one thing, his friend Templeton, had been totally right. To gain the ultimate tranquillity of a life with Belle, Ben would need to douse the conflagration that burned in her sister. If the elder of the two became a member of his household, his life would be far more difficult than he wished it to be. There must be some man in London who could take her off his hands.
First, he must find a way to charm her out of the irrational antipathy she displayed towards him. Once a truce had been declared, perhaps, he could gain some insight into her character and find an acceptable match for her where Lord Summoner had failed. He took a moment to imagine the happy gratitude of that gentleman at settling a matter that no doubt weighed heavily on his mind. It would be one more thing that would smooth the way when Ben asked for his younger daughter’s hand.
And there, on the street just below him, were the two women he most wanted to impress, admiring the bonnets in the milliner’s shop opposite his rooms. The older woman who accompanied them, and who he assumed was their chaperon, was swaying slightly as the terrier on the leash in her hand strained at each passer-by.
Perhaps today he might make an impression on the pair of them without Templeton swooping in to monopolise Arabella. Ben gave a brief glance in the mirror to assure himself that his cravat and coat were spotless before racing down the stairs. At the door, he took only a moment to compose himself again, so that their meeting might seem a chance encounter on London’s most popular shopping thoroughfare.
But in the moments it had taken to get from sitting room to street, his future wife had disappeared along with her keeper, leaving Miss Amelia and the dog as grim sentinels prepared to thwart his plans.
The girl glanced in his direction for only a moment, before turning back to stare at the shop window in a deliberate attempt to ignore him. The terrier, however, pivoted on the line holding him to give Ben’s shoes a thorough sniffing. The little beast was uncommonly ugly for a lady’s pet. It seemed to be made of the parts of a variety of animals, stuck together in a haphazard fashion by someone who had no clear idea of what a dog was supposed to look like. Its long body supported an enormous head and waddled along on hardly any legs at all. The whole of it was covered with a layer of unevenly cropped white-and-tan fur. When it had completed its investigation of his shoes, it looked up at him with an air of resigned embarrassment at its own appearance. It was then he saw that its eyes were no more coordinated than the rest of it. They were large as a bug’s and mismatched in colour, one blue, one brown, like a ridiculous parody of the woman who controlled it. It ambled forward and flopped down upon his foot, giving him far more notice than its owner, who was still stubbornly ignoring him.
If he meant to join her family, he could not allow her to cut him on the street. He nudged the dog gently aside and stepped forward, smiling. ‘Miss Summoner.’
He was sure he had spoken loud enough to be heard, but she remained purposefully oblivious.
‘Miss Summoner,’ he said more loudly to prove