Read Online His Favorite Mistress by Tracy Anne Warren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tracy Anne Warren
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their infant daughter, of course. On Julianna’s right stood her sister, Maris, and her friend Lily Andarton, the Marchioness of Vessey, both women having agreed to serve as godmothers. Although only one was required, little Stephanie Pendragon would have two godfathers as well, Ethan Andarton, the Marquis of Vessey, and Wyvern, who looked suave yet respectfully somber attired in a crisp black tailcoat and pantaloons, his linen a pristine white.
“I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen,” the minister recited as he gently anointed the infant’s head with water. Shocked at the wetting, the baby let out an indignant wail that echoed off the church’s stone walls. Smiles and a few laughs ensued, everyone saying amen.
As the service continued, Gabriella watched the members of the christening party, her lips tightening whenever her gaze happened upon Wyvern—or should she say the Duke of Wyvern. Even now, she cringed to remember what had happened after dinner last evening.
The meal had gone well—fifteen family members and friends gathered around the table to enjoy delicious food and drink amid smiles and laughter. Gabriella had found herself surprisingly relaxed, amazed once again at how thoroughly she had been accepted into the Pendragon family. Since her arrival two weeks before, the entire household had taken her under its collective wing, from Rafe and Julianna, who treated her as if she really was family whom they had known forever, to the servants, who were always ready to assist her, even when she told them she could manage for herself.
Once dinner concluded, the entire party had retired to the drawing room, the gentlemen having decided to forgo a separate session of cigars and port on this occasion. Cordials, tea, and coffee were served, together with a tray of sweetmeats that Gabriella found herself unable to resist. She was savoring a particularly toothsome piece of pecan-laden divinity when the butler, Martin, approached Wyvern, stopping to offer him the snifter of brandy he carried atop a polished silver tray.
“Will there be anything further, Your Grace?” he asked.
“Not at present, thank you,” Wyvern replied as he accepted the glass.
With a tiny frown, Gabriella laid the sweet she held onto her plate, then looked across at Wyvern. “Pardon me, Wyvern, but why does everyone keep calling you Your Grace, as if you were a duke or some such?”
An audible silence fell over the entire company before Julianna leaned forward from where she sat on the couch. “That is because he is a duke, my dear,” she said in a kindly tone. “Did you not realize?”
Heat washed into her cheeks, her gaze dropping to the floor rather than see them all stare.
“There are many days,” Wyvern quipped, breaking the silence, “when I sorely wish I was not a duke. Being toad-eaten, even when you’re using the privy, can grow quite tiresome.”
She’d laughed along with everyone else, and yet afterward a measure of her embarrassment lingered, a tight sensation forming inside her chest that she’d recognized as burgeoning affront. Undoubtedly she’d made a cake of herself by blurting out her question in such a public manner, but she would never have done so if Wyvern had been courteous enough to tell her who he really was. And it wasn’t as if he’d lacked the opportunity to reveal his title, particularly considering she had asked him earlier that same day if she should call him “my lord.”
Call me Wyvern, he’d drawled. Wyvern, my eye!
All this morning, she’d scarcely been able to look his way without ruffling up, reminded each time she did what a rube she had appeared before one and all. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten the incident, but even though she knew she should do the same, she couldn’t erase it from her mind.
Glancing up, she tried to focus her attention on the final moments of the christening ceremony, but as she did, her gaze met his. To
“I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen,” the minister recited as he gently anointed the infant’s head with water. Shocked at the wetting, the baby let out an indignant wail that echoed off the church’s stone walls. Smiles and a few laughs ensued, everyone saying amen.
As the service continued, Gabriella watched the members of the christening party, her lips tightening whenever her gaze happened upon Wyvern—or should she say the Duke of Wyvern. Even now, she cringed to remember what had happened after dinner last evening.
The meal had gone well—fifteen family members and friends gathered around the table to enjoy delicious food and drink amid smiles and laughter. Gabriella had found herself surprisingly relaxed, amazed once again at how thoroughly she had been accepted into the Pendragon family. Since her arrival two weeks before, the entire household had taken her under its collective wing, from Rafe and Julianna, who treated her as if she really was family whom they had known forever, to the servants, who were always ready to assist her, even when she told them she could manage for herself.
Once dinner concluded, the entire party had retired to the drawing room, the gentlemen having decided to forgo a separate session of cigars and port on this occasion. Cordials, tea, and coffee were served, together with a tray of sweetmeats that Gabriella found herself unable to resist. She was savoring a particularly toothsome piece of pecan-laden divinity when the butler, Martin, approached Wyvern, stopping to offer him the snifter of brandy he carried atop a polished silver tray.
“Will there be anything further, Your Grace?” he asked.
“Not at present, thank you,” Wyvern replied as he accepted the glass.
With a tiny frown, Gabriella laid the sweet she held onto her plate, then looked across at Wyvern. “Pardon me, Wyvern, but why does everyone keep calling you Your Grace, as if you were a duke or some such?”
An audible silence fell over the entire company before Julianna leaned forward from where she sat on the couch. “That is because he is a duke, my dear,” she said in a kindly tone. “Did you not realize?”
Heat washed into her cheeks, her gaze dropping to the floor rather than see them all stare.
“There are many days,” Wyvern quipped, breaking the silence, “when I sorely wish I was not a duke. Being toad-eaten, even when you’re using the privy, can grow quite tiresome.”
She’d laughed along with everyone else, and yet afterward a measure of her embarrassment lingered, a tight sensation forming inside her chest that she’d recognized as burgeoning affront. Undoubtedly she’d made a cake of herself by blurting out her question in such a public manner, but she would never have done so if Wyvern had been courteous enough to tell her who he really was. And it wasn’t as if he’d lacked the opportunity to reveal his title, particularly considering she had asked him earlier that same day if she should call him “my lord.”
Call me Wyvern, he’d drawled. Wyvern, my eye!
All this morning, she’d scarcely been able to look his way without ruffling up, reminded each time she did what a rube she had appeared before one and all. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten the incident, but even though she knew she should do the same, she couldn’t erase it from her mind.
Glancing up, she tried to focus her attention on the final moments of the christening ceremony, but as she did, her gaze met his. To
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