Read Online A Week From Sunday by Dorothy Garlock - Free Book Online

door to her bedroom, before his hand had even touched the knob, he’d known that she wouldn’t be there.
    In the end, the error had been his. He had assumed that Adrianna would be intelligent enough to see that his intentions were in her best interest; that assumption had been a great overestimation. She had been too naive to accept the simple truth that lay before her, but it was not all her fault. The coddling she had received from her father had spoiled her. She wasn’t capable of knowing what was best for her, namely to have Richard Pope for a husband.
    But where had she gone? This was the question that truly needed answering.
    Moving more deeply into the house, Richard found himself in the room in which he had declared his intentions to Adrianna. Turning on a pair of lights affixed to the wall, he could see her standing there in his mind’s eye, her luxurious hair piled high atop her porcelain face, the grief of her father’s recent passing mixing with the excitement that must have pulsed through her veins as he had spoken.
    Why had he not taken her right then and there?
    Even as he thought the question, he knew the answer: because he was a gentleman and such coarse behavior was not becoming to a man of his standing. He had not taken her; but if he had forced her, she would have been so shamed that she would have gladly married him, thinking that she had been ruined for any other man.
    Opening a decanter, he poured himself a glass of brandy, which he drank in one large gulp. The amber liquid burned as it moved down to his stomach to mix with the bile and anger he was brewing on his own. He drank another glass quickly, before he had a chance to think better of it.
    On the mantel above the fireplace was a photograph in a silver frame. He snatched it from its resting place and looked deeply into the image. In the picture, Adrianna stood slightly behind her sitting father, one hand placed upon the older man’s shoulder. As he stared at the image, he ran one finger across the young beauty’s face. She looked so very delicate, like a tender flower that needed constant care. Richard remembered the day the picture had been taken. He’d stood in the background, waiting behind the photographer.
    “That’s always been my lot!”
    From the moment he’d come into Charles Moore’s employ, all of the success that the bank had achieved had been because of him and him alone. As Charles’s illness had become increasingly debilitating, he’d removed himself from more and more responsibilities. Each and every one of those had then fallen to Richard. But was he allowed to claim the credit he had earned? Was he allowed to bask in the glow of his own success?
No!
He had to stand in the background, just as he had when this picture was taken. Well, no more! Never aga—
    A sudden noise from the rear of the house stopped him in his tracks. Cocking one ear, he waited for another sound. Moments later, he heard it again.
Someone was here!
Setting the picture back down on the mantel, he hurried over and snapped off the lights, returning the room to darkness.
    As he moved down a hallway toward the sound, his heart pounded in his ears with such force that he would have sworn that it could be heard by others. Another sound, the clinking of dishes, reached him. He pressed forward, creeping carefully, cautiously, but with purpose.
Could it be that Adrianna has returned? Has she come to her senses after all?
Light spilled from a crack in the door that led to the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, he flung the door open.
    “Ahhh!” a woman’s shrill voice shrieked.
    It was not Adrianna. His prospective bride was dainty and beautiful, but the woman he found in the kitchen was plump and especially homely. Her eyes bulged widely underneath her mop of straggly hair. One heavy hand flew to cover her heaving bosom. She was one of the Moores’ housekeepers, and his mind raced for her name.
Was it Stella? Blanche? Pansy?
Somehow, all of this served