Read Online Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea by Sophia Nash - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sophia Nash
Ads: Link
audience now surrounding them.
“How about if I keep him for you,” Alex said, trying to sound more kindly than he felt. “Until Edward is through his own mourning period at least.”
R oxanne felt surely as cold as her hat residing under six feet of sod in the St. Ives cemetery.
St. Ives cemetery . . . Not the family chapel at Paxton Hall. It was the final insult. He had so disliked the tin under her fingernails that he had not arranged for her hat to be entombed with generations of Paxtons under the stone floor of the hall’s private chapel. Nor had he chosen the cemetery near Redruth, where she had lived with her father. Obviously her husband had not wanted his name associated with her father’s home. And so Lawrence had planted her in a town neither of them visited overmuch. Oh, she knew she was being ridiculous to care.
In truth, all this absurd rumination was just an excuse to avoid going downstairs. As soon as she had ridden hell for leather back to the Mount, she had locked herself in the chamber she had been assigned. This, despite the fact that the Comtesse de Chatelier had asked for her presence in the grand salon.
The houseguests from town were trickling in at an alarming rate. Roxanne could hear the soft-spoken curses of each of the guests’ servants as they carted up the endless series of trunks and possessions along the treacherous winding path to the castle, for no carriage could make the trip.
Roxanne glanced down at the list of names the personal maid of the comtesse had drawn up for her. Names, an impossibly long list of names, along with a few descriptions of some.
There were so many lofty people on the list that she grew almost faint. There were three dukes, one duchess, and half a dozen lords and their ladies. But the largest contingent was the names of all the eligible daughters and sisters. She almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
She refused to pay any attention to the tiny voice that said she did not feel sorry for him at all. She was feeling something entirely else. What it was, she could not say. Oh, perhaps she had a warm spot for him.
How could she not? He had saved her. He had put her up; and perhaps most lovely of all, he had said just the right things to her arse of a husband at the funeral for her blue fanned-lace bonnet.
She felt her hands meld into fists, her nails biting into her tender palms. She was not going to feel anything more than admiration for him.
She knew very well where the other could lead. She was not going to make a fool of herself twice over. She would feel gratitude toward him. But that was where she would draw the line.
And besides, there were plenty of reasons why she could never feel anything more than appreciation toward him . . .
1. She was too old for him. Indeed, she was older than him by two years.
2. He was a duke—a dyed-in-the-wool, outrageously virile, classically handsome duke .
3. She was a tin miner’s daughter.
4. He was under orders to marry a nobleman’s daughter with impeccable lineage and great fortune.
5. She would never give up her fortune.
6. Oh, yes. The most important thing: She was legally dead. Or married. Or, perhaps, both. Yes, she was both.
7. He liked Town, she, the country (not that she’d ever been to London. Why, she’d never been north of Falmouth.)
8. Most importantly, she would see to her own happiness, thank you very much. And not entrust it to someone who was most likely a secretly tortured soul unable to give his heart to anyone—even if he did seem to like her dog.
9. And, she was . . . utterly ridiculous. She was after all, above all, #6, which discounted everything else on this blasted—
A knock sounded at the door. She stumbled to her feet from her hiding perch near the window.
It was he.
“You know, you could show just a little appreciation by at least attending to my great-aunt’s request. I understand your inability to obey any gentleman, at this point—especially after that nauseating
“How about if I keep him for you,” Alex said, trying to sound more kindly than he felt. “Until Edward is through his own mourning period at least.”
R oxanne felt surely as cold as her hat residing under six feet of sod in the St. Ives cemetery.
St. Ives cemetery . . . Not the family chapel at Paxton Hall. It was the final insult. He had so disliked the tin under her fingernails that he had not arranged for her hat to be entombed with generations of Paxtons under the stone floor of the hall’s private chapel. Nor had he chosen the cemetery near Redruth, where she had lived with her father. Obviously her husband had not wanted his name associated with her father’s home. And so Lawrence had planted her in a town neither of them visited overmuch. Oh, she knew she was being ridiculous to care.
In truth, all this absurd rumination was just an excuse to avoid going downstairs. As soon as she had ridden hell for leather back to the Mount, she had locked herself in the chamber she had been assigned. This, despite the fact that the Comtesse de Chatelier had asked for her presence in the grand salon.
The houseguests from town were trickling in at an alarming rate. Roxanne could hear the soft-spoken curses of each of the guests’ servants as they carted up the endless series of trunks and possessions along the treacherous winding path to the castle, for no carriage could make the trip.
Roxanne glanced down at the list of names the personal maid of the comtesse had drawn up for her. Names, an impossibly long list of names, along with a few descriptions of some.
There were so many lofty people on the list that she grew almost faint. There were three dukes, one duchess, and half a dozen lords and their ladies. But the largest contingent was the names of all the eligible daughters and sisters. She almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
She refused to pay any attention to the tiny voice that said she did not feel sorry for him at all. She was feeling something entirely else. What it was, she could not say. Oh, perhaps she had a warm spot for him.
How could she not? He had saved her. He had put her up; and perhaps most lovely of all, he had said just the right things to her arse of a husband at the funeral for her blue fanned-lace bonnet.
She felt her hands meld into fists, her nails biting into her tender palms. She was not going to feel anything more than admiration for him.
She knew very well where the other could lead. She was not going to make a fool of herself twice over. She would feel gratitude toward him. But that was where she would draw the line.
And besides, there were plenty of reasons why she could never feel anything more than appreciation toward him . . .
1. She was too old for him. Indeed, she was older than him by two years.
2. He was a duke—a dyed-in-the-wool, outrageously virile, classically handsome duke .
3. She was a tin miner’s daughter.
4. He was under orders to marry a nobleman’s daughter with impeccable lineage and great fortune.
5. She would never give up her fortune.
6. Oh, yes. The most important thing: She was legally dead. Or married. Or, perhaps, both. Yes, she was both.
7. He liked Town, she, the country (not that she’d ever been to London. Why, she’d never been north of Falmouth.)
8. Most importantly, she would see to her own happiness, thank you very much. And not entrust it to someone who was most likely a secretly tortured soul unable to give his heart to anyone—even if he did seem to like her dog.
9. And, she was . . . utterly ridiculous. She was after all, above all, #6, which discounted everything else on this blasted—
A knock sounded at the door. She stumbled to her feet from her hiding perch near the window.
It was he.
“You know, you could show just a little appreciation by at least attending to my great-aunt’s request. I understand your inability to obey any gentleman, at this point—especially after that nauseating
Similar Books
