His Cinderella Bride. ANNIE BURROWS
Читать онлайн книгу.
to do your dirty work for you, my lord?’ She thought of the letters. ‘Or your mother? You odious, pompous…Do you think your money can buy anything, or anyone?’
‘That’s enough, Hester.’ Sir Thomas appeared at Lord Lensborough’s elbow. He had been so involved in his altercation with Lady Hester, the rest of the occupants of the room might as well not have been there. ‘We are all still waiting for the cards.’
All her wrath evaporated, leaving only a quivering lower lip to show where it had been. As the light of battle faded from her eyes they reverted to that dull, indeterminate hue between brown and green that he had first supposed them.
‘Sorry, Uncle Thomas. I was…’ she faltered. ‘That is, Lord Lensborough…’
‘Yes, I could see what was going on over here.’ Sir Thomas’s voice was grim. ‘Go on, girl, off you run. Your aunts Susan and Valeria are waiting for their game of whist.’
She scooped up the packs of cards and dodged round both men in her haste to get away.
Lord Lensborough eyed Sir Thomas with new respect for dousing that violent temper with only a few firm words.
‘My lord, I hope you will not take what I am about to say amiss, but I really think it would be better if you were to stay away from my niece.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I need hardly remind you that it was my daughters you came here to look over, not her.’
Did the man think he was a complete imbecile to even consider that hoyden as a fitting wife for a man in his position? She was so far from being suitable, the very suggestion was an insult.
‘If you think I was attempting to flirt with that person, you are very much mistaken. I was merely trying to reassure myself she came to no serious hurt this afternoon, and to assure her I would make good any damage her clothing may have sustained when…’
‘When what?’
Lord Lensborough hastily explained, ‘Your niece took a tumble into a ditch this afternoon, and I happened to witness the accident, that is all, sir.’
‘A ditch? On the lane you drove up…Dear God, she wasn’t carrying a basket, was she? I can see by your expression she was.’
Dear heaven, was the woman in the habit of stealing from the kitchens in her misguided zeal to help those she considered even worse off than she was? His mouth thinned. He had not meant to give away the fact that she had been neglecting her duty to her aunt. He had just been so determined to correct the ludicrous misapprehension that he had been flirting with her that for perhaps the first time in his life he had spoken without taking thought of the consequences.
Sir Thomas stormed across the room, bending to murmur words in Lady Hester’s ears that had her turning first red, then deathly white. And when he straightened up, Hester leapt to her feet and fled from the room, turning just one look of reproach in his direction before she closed the door behind her.
It was hardly his fault she had been sent from the room. Sir Thomas must have known her behaviour was beyond what was acceptable. He should never have introduced her to him if he did not wish him to converse with her. Poor relations ought to be kept out of sight, especially ones who did not know how to behave themselves.
And how dare Sir Thomas forbid him, Jasper Challinor, fifth Marquis of Lensborough, from talking to any female he wished? It was the height of impertinence.
He would take pains to demonstrate that no man had any right to so much as comment on his actions. He was going to make a point of seeking that woman out at every opportunity and, if nothing else, wringing a damned apology out of her.
Chapter Four
Lord Lensborough strode down to the stable yard at first light with a sense of having endured a night of unmitigated torture. The bed, his temper, the troupe of clog dancers who’d been practising in the room above his all night, had all conspired to rob him of sleep.
After a few nights, he’d grow accustomed to sleeping in a semi-recumbent position, or exhaustion would inure his feet to dangling off the edge of a bed that only a midget could stretch out on in comfort. He could even deal with the clog dancers by stuffing cotton wool in his ears.
Which only left his temper. And he had a nasty suspicion that was not going to improve until he’d left The Holme, and one infuriating red-haired shrew, far behind.
No sooner had his thoughts bent in her direction, than Lady Hester trotted into the yard on a pretty little grey mare. He shook his head in disbelief. Not only were there not many people who could beat him down to the stables in the morning, he had the peculiar feeling that he had summoned her up, like a genie from a magic lamp, exactly as he’d done the night before.
Grudgingly, he admired her splendid seat. Then noted, as she bent forward and patted her mount’s neck, that her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure almost like a woman who had just made love. No, he corrected himself, annoyed that such a comparison had sprung to mind in relation to Lady Hester. She looked just like she had done when she had been surrounded by the children last night, until she had seen him and all the animation had drained from her face.
Her clothing was in better condition than the frightful rags he had seen her in before, though. The bottle-green habit fitted her like a glove, outlining a figure that, though it was slender, was not totally without womanly curves. The jacket hugged a surprisingly full pair of high, firm breasts. As she slid from her mount, her skirts snagged briefly on the pommel and he caught a tantalising glimpse of a booted ankle. Rooted to the spot, he had sudden, total recall of endlessly long legs, encased in torn black stockings, splayed out as she lay face down in the mud.
He frowned at the inappropriate image that had lodged in his mind, forcing his eyes to return to her face. They widened at the sight of a garland of paper flowers decorating her riding hat. What could have prompted her to adopt such a touch of whimsy to what was otherwise quite an austere outfit? Was she, in defiance of her hopeless state, the kind of girl who rode through the morning mists, dreaming of a prince on a black charger riding to sweep her away from her life of drudgery and dependence? Who would place a coronet among those vibrant curls, deck her swanlike neck with jewels, and murmur the sort of flattery she would never hear from a real flesh-and-blood male? The notion amused him.
He could certainly understand her very evident pleasure in having been out on such a fresh, clear morning, whatever had prompted it. There was nothing like having the world to yourself before the business of the day crowded in.
As she smoothed down her skirts his eyes followed her gloves’ progress over the contours of her hips. Having been privy to a breathtaking display of her athleticism the day before, he just knew that little posterior would be firm and muscular.
She looked up, catching his very masculine appreciation of her feminine attributes, her whole body tensing as the colour leached from her face. He frowned, feeling truly sorry that her antipathy for him had the power to destroy her pleasure in a pursuit that was so dear to his own heart. With a sigh, he began to cross the yard. All his anger towards her had achieved so far was to deprive him of sleep. It was time to call a truce.
He would use their mutual love of riding as a means of extending an olive branch.
‘Good morning, my lady. I see you enjoyed your ride.’
‘Yes.’ Her tone was guarded, her eyes wary. He supposed he ought not to be surprised she was gearing up to do battle after the way their previous encounters had gone.
‘I am very fond of riding myself.’
‘At this hour? I assumed you would lay abed till noon like most gentlemen of fashion.’
‘Ah, but I am not a gentleman of fashion. And when I am in the country I keep country hours.’
‘But I don’t suppose you ride every morning.’
‘Ah, but