Read Online Midnight Marriage: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) by Lucinda Brant - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lucinda Brant
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housekeeper.”
“I sympathize. I have a temperamental French cook who regularly sullies my ears with the most unladylike of idiomatic sentences.”
“Most lamentable,” he mocked. “Martin tells me your French is very good indeed… and that you spent some time on the Continent…?”
“This coffee is very good.”
“Yes, it is. But I’m not interested in the coffee. I’m interested in you, Miss Cavendish. Comment vous appelez-vous ?”
Deb stared into her dish. “My name? Claudia Deborah Georgiana Cavendish. Dreadful mouthful, isn’t it? I prefer my second name.”
“I knew I would have it from you eventually!” he said with a smile. “Deborah or Deb? I like both. And the—er—Cavendish?” he asked, although he knew well enough her family’s long illustrious history.
“Deb. And if you must know, my great-grandfather was the younger brother of the first Duke of Devonshire. I am cousin to the present Duke through both sides of my family. Quite a lineage, isn’t it?” she said nonchalantly. “If you count such social intangibles as important.”
“I see that you don’t.”
“Why should I? Oh, it is all very awe inspiring on paper. The name Cavendish gets one in the door at important social occasions. It doesn’t matter to the toadeaters and trencherflies that, like my father, I too am a Black Cavendish. He had three wives, y’know.”
“Your father had three wives?” Julian commented encouragingly.
“The second was positively unsuitable: An Opera singer. He did redeem himself by marrying my mother, a Boscawen. Her family is on the roll of Norman nobles.”
“The Norman rolls? Now that is impressive.”
Deb peeped up at him, wondering if he was laughing at her. But as he sat with his chin cupped in his hand and his green-eyed gaze riveted to her face, all interested inquiry, she rattled on for want of something to mask the sensation that he made her feel as if she was sitting too close to an open fire.
“I suppose if one wanted to one could throw one’s relatives about, especially now as the name of Cavendish is connected to practically everyone who is politically and socially important,” she commented with a shrug. “My brother, Sir Gerald, lives for all that sort of nonsense. He’s very good at lacing his conversation with his titled relatives. It adds to his self-consequence, and that he has in abundance.”
The Marquis pulled a face. “Sir Gerald is a positive bore.”
Deb laughed. “Yes, he is, isn’t he? But he married a sweet creature who’d been left on the shelf: unrequited love for a rakish cousin, so my brother Otto said. That must redeem Gerry somewhat.” She leaned forward, as if fearing to be overheard and said confidentially, “I secretly suspect my brother was aware of Mary’s lineage well before he ever realized she was pretty.”
“The cad!”
“Mary’s cousin is a duchess. I won’t bother you with the name. Suffice that the Duke’s family is on the roll of Norman nobles and, Mary tells me, is the largest land owner in the kingdom.”
“Dear me! An ancient name, a title and half of England: You see me all agog.”
“Well you needn’t feel humbled. Gerry toad eats them enough for all of us.”
“Does your brother have anything to recommend him?”
“I’m sure, given time, I shall think of something,” she said simply, her brown eyes alight with mischief. She dimpled delightfully when he put up his brows in expectation of her suggesting at least one redeeming feature that Sir Gerald might possess. “He is forever plagued with having me for a sister. Although he does enjoy the sympathy this elicits. You needn’t appear so interested. I’m not about to tell you why I’m a Black Cavendish. But you really should feel for Gerry’s position.”
“I certainly will not!” he said and sat up. “The fellow is not only a bore but devoid of sentiment. I hope you won’t expect me to receive him once our marriage is publicly known,
“I sympathize. I have a temperamental French cook who regularly sullies my ears with the most unladylike of idiomatic sentences.”
“Most lamentable,” he mocked. “Martin tells me your French is very good indeed… and that you spent some time on the Continent…?”
“This coffee is very good.”
“Yes, it is. But I’m not interested in the coffee. I’m interested in you, Miss Cavendish. Comment vous appelez-vous ?”
Deb stared into her dish. “My name? Claudia Deborah Georgiana Cavendish. Dreadful mouthful, isn’t it? I prefer my second name.”
“I knew I would have it from you eventually!” he said with a smile. “Deborah or Deb? I like both. And the—er—Cavendish?” he asked, although he knew well enough her family’s long illustrious history.
“Deb. And if you must know, my great-grandfather was the younger brother of the first Duke of Devonshire. I am cousin to the present Duke through both sides of my family. Quite a lineage, isn’t it?” she said nonchalantly. “If you count such social intangibles as important.”
“I see that you don’t.”
“Why should I? Oh, it is all very awe inspiring on paper. The name Cavendish gets one in the door at important social occasions. It doesn’t matter to the toadeaters and trencherflies that, like my father, I too am a Black Cavendish. He had three wives, y’know.”
“Your father had three wives?” Julian commented encouragingly.
“The second was positively unsuitable: An Opera singer. He did redeem himself by marrying my mother, a Boscawen. Her family is on the roll of Norman nobles.”
“The Norman rolls? Now that is impressive.”
Deb peeped up at him, wondering if he was laughing at her. But as he sat with his chin cupped in his hand and his green-eyed gaze riveted to her face, all interested inquiry, she rattled on for want of something to mask the sensation that he made her feel as if she was sitting too close to an open fire.
“I suppose if one wanted to one could throw one’s relatives about, especially now as the name of Cavendish is connected to practically everyone who is politically and socially important,” she commented with a shrug. “My brother, Sir Gerald, lives for all that sort of nonsense. He’s very good at lacing his conversation with his titled relatives. It adds to his self-consequence, and that he has in abundance.”
The Marquis pulled a face. “Sir Gerald is a positive bore.”
Deb laughed. “Yes, he is, isn’t he? But he married a sweet creature who’d been left on the shelf: unrequited love for a rakish cousin, so my brother Otto said. That must redeem Gerry somewhat.” She leaned forward, as if fearing to be overheard and said confidentially, “I secretly suspect my brother was aware of Mary’s lineage well before he ever realized she was pretty.”
“The cad!”
“Mary’s cousin is a duchess. I won’t bother you with the name. Suffice that the Duke’s family is on the roll of Norman nobles and, Mary tells me, is the largest land owner in the kingdom.”
“Dear me! An ancient name, a title and half of England: You see me all agog.”
“Well you needn’t feel humbled. Gerry toad eats them enough for all of us.”
“Does your brother have anything to recommend him?”
“I’m sure, given time, I shall think of something,” she said simply, her brown eyes alight with mischief. She dimpled delightfully when he put up his brows in expectation of her suggesting at least one redeeming feature that Sir Gerald might possess. “He is forever plagued with having me for a sister. Although he does enjoy the sympathy this elicits. You needn’t appear so interested. I’m not about to tell you why I’m a Black Cavendish. But you really should feel for Gerry’s position.”
“I certainly will not!” he said and sat up. “The fellow is not only a bore but devoid of sentiment. I hope you won’t expect me to receive him once our marriage is publicly known,
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