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Authors: AMANDA MCCABE
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crossed his arms over his puce-and-gold striped waistcoat. “I promised you I would not associate with the Carlton House set if we went to Brighton! I would have behaved myself.”
Justin snorted in disbelief.
“I would have! There was absolutely no reason for you to drag me off to some old watering place full of matrons and doddering old colonels looking to cure their gout. I would wager there is not a single place where one could get a decent game of cards in the whole town. And no pretty girls, either.”
“Harry . . . ,” Justin warned, looking at their mother to gauge her reaction to his rude words.
Amelia just laughed. “I do believe you would lose that wager, Harry dear. I gave your father fits the last time we were here, I lost so much at piquet and vingt-et-un.” She laughed again, brightly. “Yes, indeed, fits! ”
Harry looked marginally more interested, but persisted in his sulks. “That was thirty years ago, Mother.”
“Things could not have changed that much,” Amelia replied, unfazed. “And as for pretty girls, I am sure there will be no shortage of them. Lady Bellweather alone has three daughters, though I fear the youngest two are far from marriageable age. But the eldest will surely gather a crowd of young people around her. So there will be no lack of activities for you, Harry dear, and do stop pouting. It ruins your handsome face and makes you look quite old and crabbed.”
“No!” Harry cried, horrified.
Amelia smiled serenely and went back to looking out the window.
Justin, amazed at the sudden silence, took out his book and opened it to where he had left off. But he could not concentrate on the words at all.
He kept seeing red hair and small white feet, kept hearing the low, soft sound of a woman’s voice. Mrs. Archer’s voice. Without the distraction of Harry’s whining, his thoughts constantly went back to the dark-eyed woman.
It was absolutely fruitless, of course, all this ruminating on who she might be, what she might look like beneath her mask. He was not looking for a mistress, and even if he were she was far away.
One thing was certain—he would surely never see her again.
He laughed softly and went back to his book. Mrs. Archer could only be a small, bright memory now, a memory of a woman he had scarcely known but who had interested him, drawn him in.
He could only hope that Miss Bellweather, or someone like her, would be half as intriguing.
Chapter Seven
“Oh, Caro, is it not the loveliest house you have ever seen in your life!” Phoebe ran from room to room in their new cottage, throwing open all the window casements to let the fresh sea air in. “And we have such a grand view of the water. It is just like the Castle Tallarico.”
Caroline removed her bonnet and placed it next to her gloves and reticule on a small table. She was quite tired from their journey, but she couldn’t help smiling at Phoebe’s whirlwind of enthusiasm. The girl had chatted practically nonstop for the whole trip and showed no signs of stopping now that they had arrived in Wycombe. “Castle Tallarico?” she asked.
“From Contessa Maria’s Secret. Have you not read it?”
“I fear I have not.”
“Oh, but you simply must! It is the finest book ever written, I am sure. Contessa Maria comes to live at Castle Tallarico, which is exactly like this place. Well, almost. It is a great, crumbling, medieval stone castle, and this is a red brick cottage. But there is an ocean crashing against cliffs below, and there are secrets and a sinister housemaid and a secretive but fatally attractive prince who is the hero.” Phoebe turned wide eyes to her sister. “Caro! Do you think we shall meet a fatally attractive prince here? Perhaps even in that grand house next door!”
Fatally attractive? Lord Lyndon’s smile flashed in Caroline’s mind, as it had so often, too often, in the past days. She pushed it back, reminding herself one more time that she would never meet Lyndon again.
Justin snorted in disbelief.
“I would have! There was absolutely no reason for you to drag me off to some old watering place full of matrons and doddering old colonels looking to cure their gout. I would wager there is not a single place where one could get a decent game of cards in the whole town. And no pretty girls, either.”
“Harry . . . ,” Justin warned, looking at their mother to gauge her reaction to his rude words.
Amelia just laughed. “I do believe you would lose that wager, Harry dear. I gave your father fits the last time we were here, I lost so much at piquet and vingt-et-un.” She laughed again, brightly. “Yes, indeed, fits! ”
Harry looked marginally more interested, but persisted in his sulks. “That was thirty years ago, Mother.”
“Things could not have changed that much,” Amelia replied, unfazed. “And as for pretty girls, I am sure there will be no shortage of them. Lady Bellweather alone has three daughters, though I fear the youngest two are far from marriageable age. But the eldest will surely gather a crowd of young people around her. So there will be no lack of activities for you, Harry dear, and do stop pouting. It ruins your handsome face and makes you look quite old and crabbed.”
“No!” Harry cried, horrified.
Amelia smiled serenely and went back to looking out the window.
Justin, amazed at the sudden silence, took out his book and opened it to where he had left off. But he could not concentrate on the words at all.
He kept seeing red hair and small white feet, kept hearing the low, soft sound of a woman’s voice. Mrs. Archer’s voice. Without the distraction of Harry’s whining, his thoughts constantly went back to the dark-eyed woman.
It was absolutely fruitless, of course, all this ruminating on who she might be, what she might look like beneath her mask. He was not looking for a mistress, and even if he were she was far away.
One thing was certain—he would surely never see her again.
He laughed softly and went back to his book. Mrs. Archer could only be a small, bright memory now, a memory of a woman he had scarcely known but who had interested him, drawn him in.
He could only hope that Miss Bellweather, or someone like her, would be half as intriguing.
Chapter Seven
“Oh, Caro, is it not the loveliest house you have ever seen in your life!” Phoebe ran from room to room in their new cottage, throwing open all the window casements to let the fresh sea air in. “And we have such a grand view of the water. It is just like the Castle Tallarico.”
Caroline removed her bonnet and placed it next to her gloves and reticule on a small table. She was quite tired from their journey, but she couldn’t help smiling at Phoebe’s whirlwind of enthusiasm. The girl had chatted practically nonstop for the whole trip and showed no signs of stopping now that they had arrived in Wycombe. “Castle Tallarico?” she asked.
“From Contessa Maria’s Secret. Have you not read it?”
“I fear I have not.”
“Oh, but you simply must! It is the finest book ever written, I am sure. Contessa Maria comes to live at Castle Tallarico, which is exactly like this place. Well, almost. It is a great, crumbling, medieval stone castle, and this is a red brick cottage. But there is an ocean crashing against cliffs below, and there are secrets and a sinister housemaid and a secretive but fatally attractive prince who is the hero.” Phoebe turned wide eyes to her sister. “Caro! Do you think we shall meet a fatally attractive prince here? Perhaps even in that grand house next door!”
Fatally attractive? Lord Lyndon’s smile flashed in Caroline’s mind, as it had so often, too often, in the past days. She pushed it back, reminding herself one more time that she would never meet Lyndon again.
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