His Makeshift Wife. Anne AshleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
He slowly approached the bed, all at once seeming far taller and broader in his casual attire.
His face seemed different too—younger somehow, with several locks of waving brown hair tumbling over his forehead, and there was a definite intense, almost hungry look in those grey eyes that never for a second wavered from her direction.
‘Have you misplaced something, perhaps?’ she added, all at once feeling decidedly ill-at-ease when he seated himself, uninvited, on the edge of the bed, and placed one bronzed hand so close to her that his thumb rested against her thigh.
‘Only my bride,’ he returned silkily, sending her unease soaring in an instant.
Her response was to draw up her knees and tug the bedcovers up to her chin, clutching them frantically. ‘You—you f-forget yourself, sir!’ Even to her own ears her voice sounded little more than a choked whisper. ‘Or have you forgotten the bargain you made?’
‘I forget nothing. But for appearances’ sake I felt I must at least … er … pay you a visit,’ he responded, his voice growing more and more husky. ‘So whilst I’m here I might as well avail myself of the opportunity to discover if, perchance, you’ve changed your mind and desire to become a wife in … every sense?’
About the Author
A love of history, coupled with little desire to return to clerical work after raising two sons, prompted ANNE ASHLEY to attempt writing romantic fiction. When not working on a new story she can more often than not be found—weather permitting!—pottering in her cottage garden. Other interests include reading, and a real passion for live theatre. She also very much enjoys relaxing on warm summer afternoons with her husband, watching the Somerset team playing cricket.
Previous novels by the same author:
A NOBLE MAN* LORD EXMOUTH’S INTENTIONS* THE RELUCTANT MARCHIONESS TAVERN WENCH BELOVED VIRAGO LORD HAWKRIDGE’S SECRET BETRAYED AND BETROTHED A LADY OF RARE QUALITY LADY GWENDOLEN INVESTIGATES THE TRANSFORMATION OF MISS ASHWORTH MISS IN A MAN’S WORLD THE VISCOUNT’S SCANDALOUS RETURN
*part of the Regency mini-series The Steepwood Scandal
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?
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His Makeshift Wife
Anne Ashley
MILLS & BOON
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Chapter One
April 1813
Miss Briony Winters raised her eyes briefly to the leaden sky. It had been a fitting day for the funeral, grey and sombre, matching her mood exactly, she decided, turning away from the window in order to bid a final farewell to the last of the mourners.
‘Thank you for coming, Dr Mansfield. Although you’ve only quite recently come among us, you’ve already earned the respect of many in our community. You certainly made a favourable impression on my dear godmother when she required your services not so very long ago.’
Far from appearing gratified, the young practitioner gazed sombrely down at the slender hand he retained in his clasp. ‘It’s a great pity I was unable to diagnose Lady Ashworth’s condition at the time. She complained only of feeling unusually tired and betrayed no other symptoms of a weak heart.’
‘No one could possibly blame you, sir, least of all me,’ Briony assured him gently, while finally becoming conscious of the inordinate amount of time her hand had been resting in his comfortable, consoling clasp and withdrawing it at once. ‘My godmother was fortunate enough to enjoy shockingly good health throughout most of her life. No one suspected how ill she was. I don’t believe she even realised it herself. She merely thought she was overtired. She made numerous trips during the last twelve months of her life, visiting various friends and relations. She even went so far as to add considerable miles to her most recent journey by visiting London late last year and remaining for a week or two in the capital.’
Briony took a moment to regain command over her emotions. She had stoically maintained control throughout the ordeal of the funeral and had no intention of breaking down now, at least not while mourners remained in the house.
‘Besides which, I believe my godmother would have chosen to go that way,’ she added, determined to appear mistress of her emotions by discussing a topic that was still so very painful. ‘She had scant regard for those who continually cosset themselves, or take to their beds over the slightest ailment. A long drawn-out illness would have been the very last thing I would have wished upon her. All the same, the unexpectedness of Lady Ashworth’s passing is a little hard to come to terms with.’
‘And that is why you must not shut yourself away from the world for too long,’ the doctor cautioned, while at the same time casting an expert eye over much-admired features, which clearly betrayed those telltale signs of strain and grief. ‘I know you’ve many good friends hereabouts who would be only too willing to offer comfort and support. And I sincerely trust one day you will come to look upon my sister Florence and me in just such a light.’
The pretty young woman at his side readily concurred and went on to issue a verbal invitation to dine in the not-too-distant future. Unfortunately Briony couldn’t imagine she would ever attain much pleasure in socialising again, most especially as the wonderful person who had stood in place of a mother during the past dozen years would no longer be at her side. None the less, mindful of the social niceties which her beloved godmother had succeeded in drilling into her during their time together, she sounded sincere enough when she announced she would look forward to the evening.
The invitation to dine at the vicarage, which followed immediately afterwards, was no less graciously accepted. Even so, the instant the vicar and his good lady wife had accompanied the Mansfields from the room, Briony slumped down on one of the comfortable sofas, feeling all at once emotionally drained, yet attaining some comfort from the knowledge that she had behaved on what had been one of the most trying days of her entire life as her dear, late godmother would have wished.
Sighing, she rested her head against the comfort of the upholstery, wondering why, now that the last of the mourners had finally taken their leave and she could give way to emotion, the tears simply refused to come.
Maybe there were no more left to shed, she reflected. After all, hadn’t she cried bucketfuls since the morning her beloved benefactress had been discovered lifeless in her bed? Would she ever forget the moment when she had taken that cold hand in her own and had realised the heartrending truth? She had never forgotten the day a dozen years before when that self-same hand had grasped hers, warm and consoling,