Read Online A Dangerous Nativity by Caroline Warfield - Free Book Online
Authors: Caroline Warfield
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thought
later. Sylvia, fortified by two weeks of dinners with the marquess,
and mindful of Will's orders to be welcoming, had behaved. It
didn't hurt that her new lady's maid had been watering her 'tonic,'
gradually decreasing the drug's effect. Will determined to give the
woman a bonus.
The evening began well. Randy and Freddy,
scrubbed and dressed in their church clothes, followed a footman to
the nursery floor, where Charles had planned more War of the Roses.
Will hoped they confined themselves to the army of toy soldiers he
had liberated from the attic, in a box labeled "Master Arthur." No
crashes, screams, or other catastrophes indicated otherwise.
Catherine made proper curtsey to the marquess
and the duchess. The dress she wore, a lovely green muslin,
flattered her curves and brought out the gold in her auburn hair.
She would look spectacular in green watered silk. Will would see to
it. He no longer had any doubts that Catherine would be his
countess, her origins and Sylvia's nerves be damned.
Lord Arthur worried him at first. Stowe had
stiffened showing him in, but Lord Arthur managed a sardonic
twinkle. "It has been many years, Stowe. The prodigal has
returned." He bowed to Sylvia, who seemed utterly bemused to
discover her uncomfortable neighbor was, in fact, her
brother-in-law. That she didn't know Will put down to Emery's pure
negligence, if not spite. Sylvia eyed Catherine speculatively, but
said nothing. God be praised.
"Is it as you remember, Papa?" Catherine
asked.
"Oh, yes," the old man said. "You've made few
changes, Your Grace." He looked at Sylvia sympathetically. Will
suspected the old man must guess what it had been like for her,
living with his father and brother. "Perhaps now …" Lord Arthur's
voice trailed away while his eyes scanned the gilt and ornate
foyer.
Glenaire put his diplomatic and social polish
to use, keeping the conversation flowing over dinner. When politics
failed, literature worked. When the social season proved no
interest to the company, Glenaire spoke of education. He and Will
told stories of their boyhood at Harrow, and their successes, along
with their friends Jamie Heyworth and Andrew Mallet, in keeping the
worst of the bullying at bay. Lord Arthur seemed to find that
reassuring. Catherine provided no input at all.
"Heyworth—a baron, if I recall correctly,"
Lord Arthur said.
"His father, yes. But the son is nothing like
the father," Will told him.
"Thank goodness," Glenaire said. "Jamie lives
on half-pay since Waterloo, but he served in the cavalry like Will
for seven years, by all accounts, with distinction."
"You were in the army?" Catherine asked,
suddenly alert. She searched him, as if assessing damage.
"Neither as long, nor as well, as Jamie,"
Will answered. "I sold out three years ago to take over for my
father. He died six months after I came home."
"Did you miss it?"
"The mud and the horror of it? No. But I
should have been in Belgium."
"Nonsense, Chadbourn," Glenaire said. "Andrew
and Jamie were enough of a contribution to the wretched
Corsican."
"Were they wounded?" Catherine asked. The
compassion in her expression warmed Will's heart.
"Andrew was badly damaged," Glenaire told
her. "He has gone home to Cambridge to heal. Jamie came through
unscathed."
"In body, perhaps. Not all wounds are
visible," Will said sadly. He caught his friend's eye. When he
looked away, he found Catherine looking at him speculatively. Could
he tell her about war? Most men would not; most women wouldn't want
to hear. Somehow, he thought this woman strong enough to bear
whatever burdens he chose to share.
Glenaire skillfully moved the conversation to
the weather, always a safe choice. The impact of weather on
agriculture drew knowledgeable comments from Catherine. A brief
discussion about her father's work put color in her cheeks. She
understood the publishing business as well as she knew wheat
cultivation. She'll succeed at whatever she tries, Will thought
proudly.
When
later. Sylvia, fortified by two weeks of dinners with the marquess,
and mindful of Will's orders to be welcoming, had behaved. It
didn't hurt that her new lady's maid had been watering her 'tonic,'
gradually decreasing the drug's effect. Will determined to give the
woman a bonus.
The evening began well. Randy and Freddy,
scrubbed and dressed in their church clothes, followed a footman to
the nursery floor, where Charles had planned more War of the Roses.
Will hoped they confined themselves to the army of toy soldiers he
had liberated from the attic, in a box labeled "Master Arthur." No
crashes, screams, or other catastrophes indicated otherwise.
Catherine made proper curtsey to the marquess
and the duchess. The dress she wore, a lovely green muslin,
flattered her curves and brought out the gold in her auburn hair.
She would look spectacular in green watered silk. Will would see to
it. He no longer had any doubts that Catherine would be his
countess, her origins and Sylvia's nerves be damned.
Lord Arthur worried him at first. Stowe had
stiffened showing him in, but Lord Arthur managed a sardonic
twinkle. "It has been many years, Stowe. The prodigal has
returned." He bowed to Sylvia, who seemed utterly bemused to
discover her uncomfortable neighbor was, in fact, her
brother-in-law. That she didn't know Will put down to Emery's pure
negligence, if not spite. Sylvia eyed Catherine speculatively, but
said nothing. God be praised.
"Is it as you remember, Papa?" Catherine
asked.
"Oh, yes," the old man said. "You've made few
changes, Your Grace." He looked at Sylvia sympathetically. Will
suspected the old man must guess what it had been like for her,
living with his father and brother. "Perhaps now …" Lord Arthur's
voice trailed away while his eyes scanned the gilt and ornate
foyer.
Glenaire put his diplomatic and social polish
to use, keeping the conversation flowing over dinner. When politics
failed, literature worked. When the social season proved no
interest to the company, Glenaire spoke of education. He and Will
told stories of their boyhood at Harrow, and their successes, along
with their friends Jamie Heyworth and Andrew Mallet, in keeping the
worst of the bullying at bay. Lord Arthur seemed to find that
reassuring. Catherine provided no input at all.
"Heyworth—a baron, if I recall correctly,"
Lord Arthur said.
"His father, yes. But the son is nothing like
the father," Will told him.
"Thank goodness," Glenaire said. "Jamie lives
on half-pay since Waterloo, but he served in the cavalry like Will
for seven years, by all accounts, with distinction."
"You were in the army?" Catherine asked,
suddenly alert. She searched him, as if assessing damage.
"Neither as long, nor as well, as Jamie,"
Will answered. "I sold out three years ago to take over for my
father. He died six months after I came home."
"Did you miss it?"
"The mud and the horror of it? No. But I
should have been in Belgium."
"Nonsense, Chadbourn," Glenaire said. "Andrew
and Jamie were enough of a contribution to the wretched
Corsican."
"Were they wounded?" Catherine asked. The
compassion in her expression warmed Will's heart.
"Andrew was badly damaged," Glenaire told
her. "He has gone home to Cambridge to heal. Jamie came through
unscathed."
"In body, perhaps. Not all wounds are
visible," Will said sadly. He caught his friend's eye. When he
looked away, he found Catherine looking at him speculatively. Could
he tell her about war? Most men would not; most women wouldn't want
to hear. Somehow, he thought this woman strong enough to bear
whatever burdens he chose to share.
Glenaire skillfully moved the conversation to
the weather, always a safe choice. The impact of weather on
agriculture drew knowledgeable comments from Catherine. A brief
discussion about her father's work put color in her cheeks. She
understood the publishing business as well as she knew wheat
cultivation. She'll succeed at whatever she tries, Will thought
proudly.
When
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