Read Online Marry the Man Today by Linda Needham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Needham
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woman is his game
Man for the field and woman for the hearth.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Song
“Miss Dunaway said to tell you she'd be down in a few minutes, Lord Blakestone."
Ross glanced up from his folio of reports and into the pert fa ce of a young woman who looked to be every bit as determined and efficient as Miss Dunaway herself.
"And you are?" he asked, getting to his feet. He'd never seen anyone wearing a green clerk's visor with such pride of purpose, or with quite so many pencils sticking out of the lustrous blond knot at the back of her head.
"Miss Cassie MacLauren, Clerk of the Membership of the Abigail Adams Club for Ladies." A very large title for such a petite woman.
"Ah, then, thank you, Miss MacLauren," was all he could think to say.
"Good day, sir." With that, she spun on an efficient heel and disappeared through a doorway beneath one of the two dramatically sweeping staircases.
The Abigail Adams was an impressive sight. Elegant with marble and brass and mahogany. Richly exotic carpets, a small fountain, statuary in niches, a pair of round inlaid tables gracing the center of the foyer, each towering with a massive arrangement of flowers.
And everywhere he looked, doors closed tightly against the possibility of male intrusion.
He'd only just returned to his chair when another woman, older than Miss MacLauren, more sturdy, came through the double doors on the right. He got to his feet again, only to have the woman fix a disdainful eye on him as she crossed the width of the foyer, her arms loaded down with what appeared to be ledgers, her frown daring him to offer to help carry the books, her glare threatening bodily harm if he did.
In the course of the next few minutes a half-dozen different women entered the foyer through various doorways. Each eyed him as though he were a penny curiosity while they strode purposely across the marble floor, then flicked a glare or a scowl at him before heading off on their sundry errands.
He felt wholly plucked and skewered.
Wholly out of place.
Prepared to wait out Miss Dunaway ' s persnickety temper, Ross sat down again, picked up his newspaper, read only a single word, when he realized that the temperature in the room had cooled to eddies.
The air crackled with a familiar scent.
"Good afternoon, Blakestone. "
His breath caught in his gut as her sultry voice drifted down from the landing above.
And caught again when he looked up to find her starting down the stairs, as regal as any queen. He wondered if she knew just how unblushingly her femininity was showing at the moment. Glinting at him through the crystal green of her eyes, from her sly, cat-in-the-cream smile, from the elegantly simple lines and curves of her pale yellow shirtwaist and working skirts.
Her ankles.
Her slippers.
Christ! He staggered to his feet again and moved toward the bottom of the stairs, his mouth dry, his pulse stammering as he tried to recall the purpose of his visit.
Something he wanted to ask her about.
"Yes, good afternoon to you, Miss Dunaway."
"To what do I owe the honor of your visit, my lord?"
Lady Wallace! Yes, that was it!
But before Ross could begin to answer that he had come to dredge the truth from her, the front door opened and a half-dozen women poured in from the glare of the afternoon sun, chattering about yesterday's protest march, laughing at their triumph.
Then stopping abruptly to look at Ross.
"Pay the man no mind, ladies. Lord Blakestone will be leaving in a moment."
The women dismissed him with a single harrumph, then one of them broke out of the pack to meet Miss Dunaway at the bottom of the stairs with the front page of the same newspaper Ross had read earlier that morning.
"Elizabeth! Have you seen the Times?' "
"We're in it!"
"You're in it!" The first woman held out the paper for Miss Dunaway and jabbed at the middle of it. "See. This is so exciting! 'Elizabeth Dunaway, of the controversial Abigail Adams, was jailed yesterday for causing a
Man for the field and woman for the hearth.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Song
“Miss Dunaway said to tell you she'd be down in a few minutes, Lord Blakestone."
Ross glanced up from his folio of reports and into the pert fa ce of a young woman who looked to be every bit as determined and efficient as Miss Dunaway herself.
"And you are?" he asked, getting to his feet. He'd never seen anyone wearing a green clerk's visor with such pride of purpose, or with quite so many pencils sticking out of the lustrous blond knot at the back of her head.
"Miss Cassie MacLauren, Clerk of the Membership of the Abigail Adams Club for Ladies." A very large title for such a petite woman.
"Ah, then, thank you, Miss MacLauren," was all he could think to say.
"Good day, sir." With that, she spun on an efficient heel and disappeared through a doorway beneath one of the two dramatically sweeping staircases.
The Abigail Adams was an impressive sight. Elegant with marble and brass and mahogany. Richly exotic carpets, a small fountain, statuary in niches, a pair of round inlaid tables gracing the center of the foyer, each towering with a massive arrangement of flowers.
And everywhere he looked, doors closed tightly against the possibility of male intrusion.
He'd only just returned to his chair when another woman, older than Miss MacLauren, more sturdy, came through the double doors on the right. He got to his feet again, only to have the woman fix a disdainful eye on him as she crossed the width of the foyer, her arms loaded down with what appeared to be ledgers, her frown daring him to offer to help carry the books, her glare threatening bodily harm if he did.
In the course of the next few minutes a half-dozen different women entered the foyer through various doorways. Each eyed him as though he were a penny curiosity while they strode purposely across the marble floor, then flicked a glare or a scowl at him before heading off on their sundry errands.
He felt wholly plucked and skewered.
Wholly out of place.
Prepared to wait out Miss Dunaway ' s persnickety temper, Ross sat down again, picked up his newspaper, read only a single word, when he realized that the temperature in the room had cooled to eddies.
The air crackled with a familiar scent.
"Good afternoon, Blakestone. "
His breath caught in his gut as her sultry voice drifted down from the landing above.
And caught again when he looked up to find her starting down the stairs, as regal as any queen. He wondered if she knew just how unblushingly her femininity was showing at the moment. Glinting at him through the crystal green of her eyes, from her sly, cat-in-the-cream smile, from the elegantly simple lines and curves of her pale yellow shirtwaist and working skirts.
Her ankles.
Her slippers.
Christ! He staggered to his feet again and moved toward the bottom of the stairs, his mouth dry, his pulse stammering as he tried to recall the purpose of his visit.
Something he wanted to ask her about.
"Yes, good afternoon to you, Miss Dunaway."
"To what do I owe the honor of your visit, my lord?"
Lady Wallace! Yes, that was it!
But before Ross could begin to answer that he had come to dredge the truth from her, the front door opened and a half-dozen women poured in from the glare of the afternoon sun, chattering about yesterday's protest march, laughing at their triumph.
Then stopping abruptly to look at Ross.
"Pay the man no mind, ladies. Lord Blakestone will be leaving in a moment."
The women dismissed him with a single harrumph, then one of them broke out of the pack to meet Miss Dunaway at the bottom of the stairs with the front page of the same newspaper Ross had read earlier that morning.
"Elizabeth! Have you seen the Times?' "
"We're in it!"
"You're in it!" The first woman held out the paper for Miss Dunaway and jabbed at the middle of it. "See. This is so exciting! 'Elizabeth Dunaway, of the controversial Abigail Adams, was jailed yesterday for causing a
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