Read Online Enchanted Rendezvous: A Tangled Hearts Romance by Rebecca Ward - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Ward
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tones of silver, a color that was deemed acceptable by his lordship. Consequently, on the evening of Sir Carolus’s party Lord Brandon appeared in a gray swallow-tailed coat, a shirt of dazzling white with frills, gray breeches, and white silk stockings that disappeared into high-heeled black shoes with silver buckles.
“I wanted to wear gray pumps,” he confided to Cecily as they awaited Lady Marcham in the ground-floor anteroom, “But Andrews was against it. He was really adamant about it, so I let him have his way.”
He paused and raised his quizzing glass. “You are very fine tonight, Miss Verving. That shade of ivory emphasizes the cream and roses of your cheeks and turns your eyes to silver. Most becomin’, ’pon my honor.”
From any other gentleman this would have been a compliment. Lord Brandon spoke the words with dispassionate interest.
“Your hair is exquisite, too,” he continued judiciously. “I am gratified to see you didn’t torture it by crimpin’ it into one of the popular styles. A pity that you needed to confine it into that chignon,however. Hair like yours should be allowed to flow free—like a dark waterfall.”
As he spoke, he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The words, the gesture, were so at variance with his stilted speech that Cecily stared in astonishment. Then he raised a hand to hide a yawn.
“A curl had fallen upon your cheek,” he explained. “Charmin’, of course, but it spoiled perfection.”
She could still feel his fingers against her skin. Assured and cool, they had seemed to pulse with an inner fire. With some difficulty Cecily shrugged aside such imbecilic imaginings and replied, “I am not fond of perfection, Lord Brandon. It is cold and haughty.”
“Who is cold and haughty?” Lady Marcham asked. She had just appeared on the stairs and looked magnificent in her green silk slip with its overdress of silver gauze. Emeralds and diamonds glistened at her neck and in her ears and on her fingers and in her crown of silver hair.
Cecily clapped her hands together in admiration, and Lord Brandon bowed with languid grace. “Madam Godmother, you look the way a queen would
want
to look.”
As he escorted them toward the waiting barouche, he regaled them with amusing stories about royalty with whom he was apparently on good terms. In his languid fashion he kept the ladies entertained while the coach followed the sea road, circled Lady Marcham’s woods, and then rattled inland across the meadows to Montworthy House.
Though not overlarge, Montworthy House was a handsome property. Sir Carolus’s ancestor had built his home in the time of the Tudors, and at that time it must have been an austere and rather formidableplace. Now, under the squire’s hand, it had changed its character. The front of the house was set off with roses and friendly summer flowers, and a large kitchen garden could be glimpsed in the back.
Sir Carolus himself came trotting down the stairs to greet them at the door. “Dear Lady Marcham,” he chirruped, “I am honored to see you. Miss Vervain, your most obedient. Lord Brandon, one makes bold to say that you will not be disappointed tonight. Together with the pork roast in new milk, there will be a mushroom pasty cooked with onions and cream.”
“Your creation, Sir Carolus?” Lady Marcham smiled.
“Alas, no. One wished to assist in its preparation, but the cook would not allow it.” The little squire sighed deeply. “One must expect disappointments in life.”
He escorted them up a curved staircase and into a foyer where an orchestra was playing for the pleasure of the arriving guests. “We shall have dancing later,” Sir Carolus explained diffidently. “One feels too old for such pastimes, but James insists that a party without dancing is like lamb without the mint. Ah, here is the drawing room. Will you come this way?”
As Cecily started to follow her Aunt Emerald, Brandon slid an arm through hers.
“I wanted to wear gray pumps,” he confided to Cecily as they awaited Lady Marcham in the ground-floor anteroom, “But Andrews was against it. He was really adamant about it, so I let him have his way.”
He paused and raised his quizzing glass. “You are very fine tonight, Miss Verving. That shade of ivory emphasizes the cream and roses of your cheeks and turns your eyes to silver. Most becomin’, ’pon my honor.”
From any other gentleman this would have been a compliment. Lord Brandon spoke the words with dispassionate interest.
“Your hair is exquisite, too,” he continued judiciously. “I am gratified to see you didn’t torture it by crimpin’ it into one of the popular styles. A pity that you needed to confine it into that chignon,however. Hair like yours should be allowed to flow free—like a dark waterfall.”
As he spoke, he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The words, the gesture, were so at variance with his stilted speech that Cecily stared in astonishment. Then he raised a hand to hide a yawn.
“A curl had fallen upon your cheek,” he explained. “Charmin’, of course, but it spoiled perfection.”
She could still feel his fingers against her skin. Assured and cool, they had seemed to pulse with an inner fire. With some difficulty Cecily shrugged aside such imbecilic imaginings and replied, “I am not fond of perfection, Lord Brandon. It is cold and haughty.”
“Who is cold and haughty?” Lady Marcham asked. She had just appeared on the stairs and looked magnificent in her green silk slip with its overdress of silver gauze. Emeralds and diamonds glistened at her neck and in her ears and on her fingers and in her crown of silver hair.
Cecily clapped her hands together in admiration, and Lord Brandon bowed with languid grace. “Madam Godmother, you look the way a queen would
want
to look.”
As he escorted them toward the waiting barouche, he regaled them with amusing stories about royalty with whom he was apparently on good terms. In his languid fashion he kept the ladies entertained while the coach followed the sea road, circled Lady Marcham’s woods, and then rattled inland across the meadows to Montworthy House.
Though not overlarge, Montworthy House was a handsome property. Sir Carolus’s ancestor had built his home in the time of the Tudors, and at that time it must have been an austere and rather formidableplace. Now, under the squire’s hand, it had changed its character. The front of the house was set off with roses and friendly summer flowers, and a large kitchen garden could be glimpsed in the back.
Sir Carolus himself came trotting down the stairs to greet them at the door. “Dear Lady Marcham,” he chirruped, “I am honored to see you. Miss Vervain, your most obedient. Lord Brandon, one makes bold to say that you will not be disappointed tonight. Together with the pork roast in new milk, there will be a mushroom pasty cooked with onions and cream.”
“Your creation, Sir Carolus?” Lady Marcham smiled.
“Alas, no. One wished to assist in its preparation, but the cook would not allow it.” The little squire sighed deeply. “One must expect disappointments in life.”
He escorted them up a curved staircase and into a foyer where an orchestra was playing for the pleasure of the arriving guests. “We shall have dancing later,” Sir Carolus explained diffidently. “One feels too old for such pastimes, but James insists that a party without dancing is like lamb without the mint. Ah, here is the drawing room. Will you come this way?”
As Cecily started to follow her Aunt Emerald, Brandon slid an arm through hers.
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