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Authors: Sabrina Jeffries
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he could, but if they happened to slip out…A former smuggler and a highwayman’s son would surely send her running.
He reached the hall and nearly smiled when he saw Lady Rosalind turn away as if she hadn’t been spying on them throughout their conversation. He’d never seen a woman so incapable of subtlety.
He held his arm out to her. “Shall we go?”
True to form, she ignored it to stalk off down the hall with all the dignity of a great lady. It was quite a performance, but he’d seen the woman flouncing about in her wrapper—she was about as dignified as an orange seller at the theater.
“This way, Mr. Brennan,” she called back. “There’s much to see and no time to waste.”
Casting a wry glance at Daniel, he followed her. At least he could enjoy the view, he thought, as his gaze swung unerringly to her generous hips. That dramatic gown clung far too sweetly to her curves for a man’s sanity. Didn’t she know her walk wasn’t the least demure, that it rivaled a courtesan’s for sheer seductiveness?
Probably. It would be just like the damnable woman to try feminine wiles on him. Well, they wouldn’t work. He could withstand the attractions of any woman—especially his enemy’s daughter—if he made a concerted effort to control his wayward thoughts.
Now if only he could control his wayward cock…
Percival, the Earl of Swanlea, sometimes wondered how long he could endure this agony of living. He could not breathe deeply without setting off the coughing. His muscles ached down to the bone, and he could feel the disease creeping beyond his lungs and into the rest of his body, destroying its very fibers.
Most of all, he missed Solange. If not for the girls, he would give up his struggle and join his beloved wife in the great beyond. But he must see all his daughters secure ere he died, no matter what physical pain it cost him, and that meant finding one of them a wealthy husband. Which was why he’d taken this risk with Knighton, of all people.
It was a great risk indeed, bringing him here. Only the breath of Death on his face, coming closer with each passing night, dared him to try it.
He glanced over to where Helena sat at his writing table, bent over her painting-box contraption as she daubed lightly at some ivory squares. Where she got the ivory he did not know, but then, no one told him anything now that he was infirm.
He could still deduce some matters for himself. For one thing, he knew Rosalind was wrong about Juliet. His youngest was clearly eager to marry Knighton—he could tell from the modest way she hid her face whenever the marriage was mentioned. And he knew, no matter what Rosalind protested, that his middle daughter was peeved over Juliet’s marrying first.
But whatever her reasons for protest, he would ignore them—for if he did not make peace with hisold enemy’s son, all his daughters would lose their home and the chance of a secure future.
Helena sighed softly over her work, irritating him with her bloody eternal patience.
“Will he come soon?” Percival snapped.
“Yes, Papa. Juliet is bringing him upstairs after breakfast.”
“Good. I am anxious to see him.”
The door swung open only moments later and a man stood in the doorway behind Juliet, dwarfing her with his amazing height.
Leonard’s son, stalwart as a castle. After all these years, the babe Percival had wronged stood before him. Old feelings swamped him—resentment, anger…and heavier than them all, guilt. At least Leonard had sired a son when Percival had fathered no son at all. But that did not assuage his guilt much.
“Good morning, Mr. Knighton,” Helena said, drawing Percival from his unpleasant memories. The girl used one hand on the desk to push herself to a stand.
She was remarkable—graceful and polished, despite her infirmity. She owed those qualities to Solange’s training. Percival owed much to Solange himself. At least he could take pleasure in knowing she would be proud
He reached the hall and nearly smiled when he saw Lady Rosalind turn away as if she hadn’t been spying on them throughout their conversation. He’d never seen a woman so incapable of subtlety.
He held his arm out to her. “Shall we go?”
True to form, she ignored it to stalk off down the hall with all the dignity of a great lady. It was quite a performance, but he’d seen the woman flouncing about in her wrapper—she was about as dignified as an orange seller at the theater.
“This way, Mr. Brennan,” she called back. “There’s much to see and no time to waste.”
Casting a wry glance at Daniel, he followed her. At least he could enjoy the view, he thought, as his gaze swung unerringly to her generous hips. That dramatic gown clung far too sweetly to her curves for a man’s sanity. Didn’t she know her walk wasn’t the least demure, that it rivaled a courtesan’s for sheer seductiveness?
Probably. It would be just like the damnable woman to try feminine wiles on him. Well, they wouldn’t work. He could withstand the attractions of any woman—especially his enemy’s daughter—if he made a concerted effort to control his wayward thoughts.
Now if only he could control his wayward cock…
Percival, the Earl of Swanlea, sometimes wondered how long he could endure this agony of living. He could not breathe deeply without setting off the coughing. His muscles ached down to the bone, and he could feel the disease creeping beyond his lungs and into the rest of his body, destroying its very fibers.
Most of all, he missed Solange. If not for the girls, he would give up his struggle and join his beloved wife in the great beyond. But he must see all his daughters secure ere he died, no matter what physical pain it cost him, and that meant finding one of them a wealthy husband. Which was why he’d taken this risk with Knighton, of all people.
It was a great risk indeed, bringing him here. Only the breath of Death on his face, coming closer with each passing night, dared him to try it.
He glanced over to where Helena sat at his writing table, bent over her painting-box contraption as she daubed lightly at some ivory squares. Where she got the ivory he did not know, but then, no one told him anything now that he was infirm.
He could still deduce some matters for himself. For one thing, he knew Rosalind was wrong about Juliet. His youngest was clearly eager to marry Knighton—he could tell from the modest way she hid her face whenever the marriage was mentioned. And he knew, no matter what Rosalind protested, that his middle daughter was peeved over Juliet’s marrying first.
But whatever her reasons for protest, he would ignore them—for if he did not make peace with hisold enemy’s son, all his daughters would lose their home and the chance of a secure future.
Helena sighed softly over her work, irritating him with her bloody eternal patience.
“Will he come soon?” Percival snapped.
“Yes, Papa. Juliet is bringing him upstairs after breakfast.”
“Good. I am anxious to see him.”
The door swung open only moments later and a man stood in the doorway behind Juliet, dwarfing her with his amazing height.
Leonard’s son, stalwart as a castle. After all these years, the babe Percival had wronged stood before him. Old feelings swamped him—resentment, anger…and heavier than them all, guilt. At least Leonard had sired a son when Percival had fathered no son at all. But that did not assuage his guilt much.
“Good morning, Mr. Knighton,” Helena said, drawing Percival from his unpleasant memories. The girl used one hand on the desk to push herself to a stand.
She was remarkable—graceful and polished, despite her infirmity. She owed those qualities to Solange’s training. Percival owed much to Solange himself. At least he could take pleasure in knowing she would be proud
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