Read Online Highlander's Hope by Collette Cameron - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Collette Cameron
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lie.
Yvette was piqued with him. So why couldn’t she tear her gaze from him?
His hair was brushed and he had shaved. A chocolate brown cutaway coat stretched across his wide shoulders. Creamy ivory breeches, tucked into gleaming black boots, revealed long, athletic legs. A paisley patterned waistcoat held hues of jade green, deepening the color of his eyes to dark teal.
He bowed over Yvette’s hand, and she inhaled his now familiar scent.
She had dressed with deliberate care, selecting a gown to boost her confidence, yet appropriate for mourning. The violet bombazine was one of her favorites. Around her neck she wore a violet velvet choker, the center adorned with an onyx cameo. In her ears dangled amethyst and onyx earrings. Her hair was styled simply and intertwined with violet ribbons. Several loose curls framed her face.
“If you’re ready ladies, let’s go below stairs and break our fast.” He extended an elbow to each woman and the three left the chamber.
Mrs. Quimby met them at the bottom of the stairway and showed them to a private dining compartment. An array of tempting foods was displayed on a sideboard. She hovered nervously.
“Ladies, please accept my apologies for any distress you were caused this morning. Myles and I want to assure you, we’ve never had an intruder on the premises before. We keep the doors and windows securely bolted.” She met each of their gazes. “The authorities have been notified.”
Mrs. Pettigrove astounded Yvette by responding with kind understanding. “Mrs. Quimby, I don’t hold you responsible for the unfortunate event earlier.”
The petty look she darted Yvette suggested the same mercy wasn’t, as yet, extended to her. Mrs. Pettigrove, her plate heaped with a liberal portion of food, waddled to the chair Viscount Sethwick held for her. Yvette followed, stopping short of the round table. He moved to the chair opposite Mrs. Pettigrove, rather than one positioned on either side of the munching matron.
“Miss Stapleton,” he indicated the chair he stood behind.
Yvette lowered herself onto the seat. “Thank you, my lord.”
He dipped his head, his breath tickling her ear, and murmured, “Call me Ewan, Evvy.”
The way he said her name—as if he was savoring the most marvelous, decadent desert—caused her heart to trip over itself, and to beat unsteadily for several delicious moments—even if his request was only this side of improper.
The viscount took a seat between the two women.
Yvette considered him. Vangie must have told him her pet name. She attempted to eat a scone, but abandoned the idea when her stomach rebelled. She nibbled a couple of cherries, but they too sent her insides cavorting. Sipping a cup of steaming tea helped to steady her nerves.
Idly admiring the teacup’s delicate blue rose pattern, her mind sought answers to the question haunting her. How on earth, was she to solve this fiasco of an engagement to Viscount Sethwick?
She made no attempt at conversation, but sipped her tea and listened to Mrs. Pettigrove’s prattle. Why did the viscount keep sending Yvette those assessing looks? It was as if he attempted to read her mind.
Had Mrs. Pettigrove no idea she was being boorish? Her twaddle strained his manners. The pinched look on his face made that quite apparent. Yvette bit the inside of her cheek to stop the smile that threatened. Lord above, did Mrs. Pettigrove truly think he cared in the least that shellfish gave her a rash and caused her lips to swell like, two great sausages ?
She cast a peek at the viscount. He stared at Mrs. Pettigrove, his sausage laden fork halfway to his mouth. Were his lips twitching? The smile Yvette had been restraining burst forth when his amused gaze drifted to her.
He raised the fork and took a deliberate bite.
Mrs. Pettigrove’s grating voice interrupted the moment. “Lord Sethwick, I’m loath to remind you, but you did promise to provide evidence of a special license.”
Merciful God,
Yvette was piqued with him. So why couldn’t she tear her gaze from him?
His hair was brushed and he had shaved. A chocolate brown cutaway coat stretched across his wide shoulders. Creamy ivory breeches, tucked into gleaming black boots, revealed long, athletic legs. A paisley patterned waistcoat held hues of jade green, deepening the color of his eyes to dark teal.
He bowed over Yvette’s hand, and she inhaled his now familiar scent.
She had dressed with deliberate care, selecting a gown to boost her confidence, yet appropriate for mourning. The violet bombazine was one of her favorites. Around her neck she wore a violet velvet choker, the center adorned with an onyx cameo. In her ears dangled amethyst and onyx earrings. Her hair was styled simply and intertwined with violet ribbons. Several loose curls framed her face.
“If you’re ready ladies, let’s go below stairs and break our fast.” He extended an elbow to each woman and the three left the chamber.
Mrs. Quimby met them at the bottom of the stairway and showed them to a private dining compartment. An array of tempting foods was displayed on a sideboard. She hovered nervously.
“Ladies, please accept my apologies for any distress you were caused this morning. Myles and I want to assure you, we’ve never had an intruder on the premises before. We keep the doors and windows securely bolted.” She met each of their gazes. “The authorities have been notified.”
Mrs. Pettigrove astounded Yvette by responding with kind understanding. “Mrs. Quimby, I don’t hold you responsible for the unfortunate event earlier.”
The petty look she darted Yvette suggested the same mercy wasn’t, as yet, extended to her. Mrs. Pettigrove, her plate heaped with a liberal portion of food, waddled to the chair Viscount Sethwick held for her. Yvette followed, stopping short of the round table. He moved to the chair opposite Mrs. Pettigrove, rather than one positioned on either side of the munching matron.
“Miss Stapleton,” he indicated the chair he stood behind.
Yvette lowered herself onto the seat. “Thank you, my lord.”
He dipped his head, his breath tickling her ear, and murmured, “Call me Ewan, Evvy.”
The way he said her name—as if he was savoring the most marvelous, decadent desert—caused her heart to trip over itself, and to beat unsteadily for several delicious moments—even if his request was only this side of improper.
The viscount took a seat between the two women.
Yvette considered him. Vangie must have told him her pet name. She attempted to eat a scone, but abandoned the idea when her stomach rebelled. She nibbled a couple of cherries, but they too sent her insides cavorting. Sipping a cup of steaming tea helped to steady her nerves.
Idly admiring the teacup’s delicate blue rose pattern, her mind sought answers to the question haunting her. How on earth, was she to solve this fiasco of an engagement to Viscount Sethwick?
She made no attempt at conversation, but sipped her tea and listened to Mrs. Pettigrove’s prattle. Why did the viscount keep sending Yvette those assessing looks? It was as if he attempted to read her mind.
Had Mrs. Pettigrove no idea she was being boorish? Her twaddle strained his manners. The pinched look on his face made that quite apparent. Yvette bit the inside of her cheek to stop the smile that threatened. Lord above, did Mrs. Pettigrove truly think he cared in the least that shellfish gave her a rash and caused her lips to swell like, two great sausages ?
She cast a peek at the viscount. He stared at Mrs. Pettigrove, his sausage laden fork halfway to his mouth. Were his lips twitching? The smile Yvette had been restraining burst forth when his amused gaze drifted to her.
He raised the fork and took a deliberate bite.
Mrs. Pettigrove’s grating voice interrupted the moment. “Lord Sethwick, I’m loath to remind you, but you did promise to provide evidence of a special license.”
Merciful God,
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