Read Online At Your Pleasure by Meredith Duran - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Meredith Duran
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control.
Manufacturing an amicable manner, she said, “I saw the messenger, Lord Rivenham. May I ask if he brought correspondence for me?”
“No, he did not,” Rivenham said, not looking up from the paper in his hand. “Did you require aught else?”
His manner was cold, as though he had forgotten the kiss, or been utterly unaffected by it. She ignored the strange emotions this idea inspired, a mix of envy and resentment and anger. How fortunate he was to be able to remain unmoved!
“I require nothing,” she said lightly, “only, if it were possible, I would appreciate news, and company.”
The surprise he must surely feel did little to alter his expression. But the wariness that followed it—she saw that clearly enough in the way he carefully lowered the letter to the desk.
On a deep breath, she mustered herself to continue. “If you are to stay under this roof for so long, then we may as well coexist peaceably. Don’t you think?”
Lord John did not like this. Coming up behind her, he said, “We are not here to entertain you, madam—”
Rivenham’s brow lifted. Like magic, the boy once again fell silent.
She had seen Rivenham work these spells on men before. It was something to do with how calmly he comported himself, how closely he observed those around him, and how economically he used his words—so that when he did speak, others held their breath, anticipating something of import.
But as the silence extended, she realized with a start that Lord John had misinterpreted his master’s look: that lifted brow was not a challenge to him but a silent query to her . Rivenham was silently asking her what accounted for this abrupt change in her manner.
She felt the blood rush into her cheeks at the intimate thought: I know how to read his face still . For what else was intimacy but this—the private knowledge of a person?
Uneasy, she turned away, pretending to study the books that lined the shelves against the wall. Some of them, the older ones, had chains to fasten them in place, and these hung uselessly from their spines, like the broken wings of birds.
“There is very little news of note from town,” came Rivenham’s measured reply. “But if you will sit, I will share all of interest.”
Lord John’s snort spoke volumes of its own. “Oh, yes,” he said, “and let us call for tea as well. Is this a salon? Lady Towe, we might not have found aught yet to interest our king, but have no doubt that I believe you know exactly where we might look to find otherwise.”
She glanced to Rivenham as she sat, but he seemed to have lost interest in defending her; he waited expressionlessly to see how she would reply.
Very well. She met Lord John’s hostile gaze. “It would be unmannerly to contradict you, sir, but I fear your suspicions are mistaken. Of course, if you believe you have missed something, you must always feel at liberty to look again.”
Rivenham smiled slightly. She found that smile puzzling,until he directed it without warning at her, and then it became something else: something too akin to a moment of uncanny understanding.
He liked her wit.
Just as quickly his smile faded, and he looked back to his letter.
He did not want to like her wit.
She understood his discomfort exactly.
She looked down to her lap, where her hands were twisting. Her breath was coming faster, as though she had done something daring or arduous, when in fact she hadn’t accomplished anything yet. She must sit here awhile longer before she posed her proposition to them, and even then, with Lord John sulking, it might not work.
Clearing her throat, she tried for a way to smooth over the boy’s affront. She would appeal to his apparent belief that he knew more of her than she did. “Forgive me if my words caused offense, Lord John. We have met before, so you will know I am not the most . . .”
“Politic,” was Rivenham’s dry suggestion.
She did not dare look at him. “ Politic of women,” she
Manufacturing an amicable manner, she said, “I saw the messenger, Lord Rivenham. May I ask if he brought correspondence for me?”
“No, he did not,” Rivenham said, not looking up from the paper in his hand. “Did you require aught else?”
His manner was cold, as though he had forgotten the kiss, or been utterly unaffected by it. She ignored the strange emotions this idea inspired, a mix of envy and resentment and anger. How fortunate he was to be able to remain unmoved!
“I require nothing,” she said lightly, “only, if it were possible, I would appreciate news, and company.”
The surprise he must surely feel did little to alter his expression. But the wariness that followed it—she saw that clearly enough in the way he carefully lowered the letter to the desk.
On a deep breath, she mustered herself to continue. “If you are to stay under this roof for so long, then we may as well coexist peaceably. Don’t you think?”
Lord John did not like this. Coming up behind her, he said, “We are not here to entertain you, madam—”
Rivenham’s brow lifted. Like magic, the boy once again fell silent.
She had seen Rivenham work these spells on men before. It was something to do with how calmly he comported himself, how closely he observed those around him, and how economically he used his words—so that when he did speak, others held their breath, anticipating something of import.
But as the silence extended, she realized with a start that Lord John had misinterpreted his master’s look: that lifted brow was not a challenge to him but a silent query to her . Rivenham was silently asking her what accounted for this abrupt change in her manner.
She felt the blood rush into her cheeks at the intimate thought: I know how to read his face still . For what else was intimacy but this—the private knowledge of a person?
Uneasy, she turned away, pretending to study the books that lined the shelves against the wall. Some of them, the older ones, had chains to fasten them in place, and these hung uselessly from their spines, like the broken wings of birds.
“There is very little news of note from town,” came Rivenham’s measured reply. “But if you will sit, I will share all of interest.”
Lord John’s snort spoke volumes of its own. “Oh, yes,” he said, “and let us call for tea as well. Is this a salon? Lady Towe, we might not have found aught yet to interest our king, but have no doubt that I believe you know exactly where we might look to find otherwise.”
She glanced to Rivenham as she sat, but he seemed to have lost interest in defending her; he waited expressionlessly to see how she would reply.
Very well. She met Lord John’s hostile gaze. “It would be unmannerly to contradict you, sir, but I fear your suspicions are mistaken. Of course, if you believe you have missed something, you must always feel at liberty to look again.”
Rivenham smiled slightly. She found that smile puzzling,until he directed it without warning at her, and then it became something else: something too akin to a moment of uncanny understanding.
He liked her wit.
Just as quickly his smile faded, and he looked back to his letter.
He did not want to like her wit.
She understood his discomfort exactly.
She looked down to her lap, where her hands were twisting. Her breath was coming faster, as though she had done something daring or arduous, when in fact she hadn’t accomplished anything yet. She must sit here awhile longer before she posed her proposition to them, and even then, with Lord John sulking, it might not work.
Clearing her throat, she tried for a way to smooth over the boy’s affront. She would appeal to his apparent belief that he knew more of her than she did. “Forgive me if my words caused offense, Lord John. We have met before, so you will know I am not the most . . .”
“Politic,” was Rivenham’s dry suggestion.
She did not dare look at him. “ Politic of women,” she
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