Read Online In Love With a Wicked Man by Liz Carlyle - Free Book Online
Authors: Liz Carlyle
Ads: Link
the water.”
“I do beg your pardon,” he said gruffly. “I have put everyone to a vast amount of trouble.”
“Not in the least,” said the girl. “After all, this is Kate’s fault—and, well, mine.”
“Yes, you were quarreling, I hear,” he said, grinning. “What, I wonder, could two such agreeable ladies find to quarrel over?”
“A man,” said Miss Wentworth, lifting one shoulder. “Really, do women ever quarrel over much else, when you strip it bare?”
Edward didn’t know what to say at that. A man. How odd. He had somehow imagined that . . .
“What time will Lady d’Allenay return?” he asked, trying to hide his impatience.
Miss Wentworth’s eyes glittered with humor. “Oh, it will be hours,” she replied. “They’re riding the lower pastures, getting ready for the autumn damp.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Damp?”
She smiled brilliantly. “Yes, the sheep must be counted, and checked to be sure they are sound for the winter, then driven off the coeing ground. Coe being a disease of sheep, you see.”
“It sounds dreadful,” he said vaguely.
“Yes, tapeworms or liver flukes or some such thing.” She shrugged. “Kate can explain it better than I.”
“Your sister must have a remarkable knowledge base,” he said dryly.
“Oh, if you live here long enough, you’ll learn all about sheep, whether you wish to or not,” she replied. “Besides, Kate has to know. Our lower pastures are too wet for wintering.”
“I believe I must not be country bred,” said Edward, none of this sounding familiar to him. “But I should apologize. I have detained you, and it looks as though you were busy.”
“Oh, yes!” Wrinkling her nose, Miss Wentworth stirred from the door, and made a dramatic gesture with her duster. “Desperate duty calls!”
“Desperate? How so?”
A look of exasperation dashed over Miss Wentworth’s face. “My mother, Aurélie, is coming to visit,” she said, “so we’re scrubbing the place crown to baseboard, and turning out all the guest rooms. Everyone pitches in.”
He laughed. “How many guest rooms does she need?”
“Heavens, who knows?” She threw her arms wide, nearly catching a vase with her duster. “That’s half the problem. She’ll say four, and a baker’s dozen will turn up. Once she came with eight carriages and twenty servants in tow—she dislikes trains excessively—but her gentlemen friends inevitably must shoot, and Aurélie never stirs without an entourage.”
“Impressive,” he said. “But your mother does not reside here?”
“No, she finds it too bleak by the moors. She spends the Season in London, and the winter in France.”
“And you do not go with her?”
Miss Wentworth lifted one shoulder. “No,” she said, “and our aunt Louisa says that Aurélie hasn’t the patience—or, frankly, the reputation—to bring out a debutante, which I very nearly am.”
“Hmm,” he said. “And what is this dashing lady’s full name?”
“Mrs. James Wentworth,” said the girl, “but she has been a widow some years now.”
Edward didn’t recognize the name, but then, he hardly recognized his own. “So you’re to have a country house party descend upon you shortly. I must get myself well and out of your way.”
“Oh, by no means! We’ve twenty-three guest chambers, and even Mamma cannot fill up so many as that.” Her nose wrinkled again. “Still, those in the south tower are a little tatty.”
Edward remembered Lady d’Allenay’s remark about what she could not afford. But he had no opportunity to explore the topic further—not that it was his place to do so.
The footman returned with a tray and Miss Wentworth stepped out. “Oh, by the way, Edward,” she called back, as Jasper lifted off the cover of a plate of a warm omelet, “your things have been pressed and hung in the wardrobe, and your luggage stowed in the coffer.”
“The coffer?”
With her duster, she pointed at the medieval chest that sat
“I do beg your pardon,” he said gruffly. “I have put everyone to a vast amount of trouble.”
“Not in the least,” said the girl. “After all, this is Kate’s fault—and, well, mine.”
“Yes, you were quarreling, I hear,” he said, grinning. “What, I wonder, could two such agreeable ladies find to quarrel over?”
“A man,” said Miss Wentworth, lifting one shoulder. “Really, do women ever quarrel over much else, when you strip it bare?”
Edward didn’t know what to say at that. A man. How odd. He had somehow imagined that . . .
“What time will Lady d’Allenay return?” he asked, trying to hide his impatience.
Miss Wentworth’s eyes glittered with humor. “Oh, it will be hours,” she replied. “They’re riding the lower pastures, getting ready for the autumn damp.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Damp?”
She smiled brilliantly. “Yes, the sheep must be counted, and checked to be sure they are sound for the winter, then driven off the coeing ground. Coe being a disease of sheep, you see.”
“It sounds dreadful,” he said vaguely.
“Yes, tapeworms or liver flukes or some such thing.” She shrugged. “Kate can explain it better than I.”
“Your sister must have a remarkable knowledge base,” he said dryly.
“Oh, if you live here long enough, you’ll learn all about sheep, whether you wish to or not,” she replied. “Besides, Kate has to know. Our lower pastures are too wet for wintering.”
“I believe I must not be country bred,” said Edward, none of this sounding familiar to him. “But I should apologize. I have detained you, and it looks as though you were busy.”
“Oh, yes!” Wrinkling her nose, Miss Wentworth stirred from the door, and made a dramatic gesture with her duster. “Desperate duty calls!”
“Desperate? How so?”
A look of exasperation dashed over Miss Wentworth’s face. “My mother, Aurélie, is coming to visit,” she said, “so we’re scrubbing the place crown to baseboard, and turning out all the guest rooms. Everyone pitches in.”
He laughed. “How many guest rooms does she need?”
“Heavens, who knows?” She threw her arms wide, nearly catching a vase with her duster. “That’s half the problem. She’ll say four, and a baker’s dozen will turn up. Once she came with eight carriages and twenty servants in tow—she dislikes trains excessively—but her gentlemen friends inevitably must shoot, and Aurélie never stirs without an entourage.”
“Impressive,” he said. “But your mother does not reside here?”
“No, she finds it too bleak by the moors. She spends the Season in London, and the winter in France.”
“And you do not go with her?”
Miss Wentworth lifted one shoulder. “No,” she said, “and our aunt Louisa says that Aurélie hasn’t the patience—or, frankly, the reputation—to bring out a debutante, which I very nearly am.”
“Hmm,” he said. “And what is this dashing lady’s full name?”
“Mrs. James Wentworth,” said the girl, “but she has been a widow some years now.”
Edward didn’t recognize the name, but then, he hardly recognized his own. “So you’re to have a country house party descend upon you shortly. I must get myself well and out of your way.”
“Oh, by no means! We’ve twenty-three guest chambers, and even Mamma cannot fill up so many as that.” Her nose wrinkled again. “Still, those in the south tower are a little tatty.”
Edward remembered Lady d’Allenay’s remark about what she could not afford. But he had no opportunity to explore the topic further—not that it was his place to do so.
The footman returned with a tray and Miss Wentworth stepped out. “Oh, by the way, Edward,” she called back, as Jasper lifted off the cover of a plate of a warm omelet, “your things have been pressed and hung in the wardrobe, and your luggage stowed in the coffer.”
“The coffer?”
With her duster, she pointed at the medieval chest that sat
Similar Books
