Read Online Miss Spencer Rides Astride (Heroines on Horseback) by Sydney Alexander - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sydney Alexander
Tags: Regency Romance
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plate, flushing up to her ears.
William took another sip of wine, and thought about how very badly he was doing at lying low in Ireland.
CHAPTER NINE
The first letter from Peregrin arrived only a few days after he left William in Ireland. And it was chock-full of words which William did not want to read.
Your father does very well despite your absence, which I am sure is just what you were hoping to hear. Of course it is a quiet season, with most of London decamped to the country, but he does his share of entertaining, and sweet Violetta is never absent from these gatherings. She is noisy as ever, I must say, despite all the gossip about your sudden disappearance. I have not noticed any particular young stag keeping her company yet. Perhaps her fortune cannot compensate for her giggling. You may be sure that she will insist on answers soon, so be sure to keep your head down. Her mama will grow impatient soon enough, and move on to fresh prey.
William lay the letter aside and watched the flames in the hearth leap up to lick the blackened stones around them. It was not just Violetta’s terrifying mama he had to wait out. It was his own father, and the fact hurt abominably. More than he had expected, in fact. He took a sip of whiskey and relished the burn as it rolled down his throat and pooled in his stomach.
Would he really rot out here in Ireland until his father died? He had initially been prepared to do just that. Standing there on the deck of the ship, watching Ireland’s foggy bulk rise up from the cold sea, he had been quite resolved to give up England, his home, and his inheritance until his father went to the grave, taking with him his out-dated opinions and his grandfathers’ edicts. His foolish notions about how William Archwood, future Earl of Tivington, should live. And who he should live it with.
It would be a self-inflicted punishment that would be as hard on him as it would be on his father, of course, but truly, William believed, he had been driven to such dire actions. No matter what the documents said, he would never marry Violetta deLacey. The signatures on those yellowed parchments were not his. They were not even hers. Lady Violetta deLacey had been a babe in a cradle, and he, William, a boy still riding his pony on a leading rein, when his father affianced him to the Duke of Marchwood’s first-born child.
He still remembered peering into the cradle in the ducal nursery, looking at the little bride-to-be in her lace and ribbons, and looking back at his father in confusion. “I’m to marry a baby?” he’d asked, scandalized, and the men and the nursemaids had laughed affectionately.
It had been his grandfather’s doing, of course; that old man had never been able to relinquish control of any family doing, and when he had known himself failing in health, he had sewn up whatever loose end in the Archwood household he could. Even the tenant farmers were instructed on what to plant for the next five years. The supervisors of the Caribbean holdings were sent lengthy letters detailing their course of business for the foreseeable future. When the old earl died, leaving William’s father the head of the family, he was left with little to do but take his young son hunting.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about marrying the baby,” he’d told his shocked son at the engagement. “She’ll grow up to be a lovely lady, and you’ll not have to worry about any of those fortune-hunters when you grow up yourself. Now let’s go see about a new pony!”
The pony had been a welcome distraction, but even now, William could remember his bewildered hurt at the thought of being affianced to that plump babe in a bassinet. His grandfather might have insisted that he marry the girl, but William was already developing the sort of independence (“hard-headedness,” his father would say) that made him chafe against the authority of others to run his life.
Seventeen years later, he was even less
William took another sip of wine, and thought about how very badly he was doing at lying low in Ireland.
CHAPTER NINE
The first letter from Peregrin arrived only a few days after he left William in Ireland. And it was chock-full of words which William did not want to read.
Your father does very well despite your absence, which I am sure is just what you were hoping to hear. Of course it is a quiet season, with most of London decamped to the country, but he does his share of entertaining, and sweet Violetta is never absent from these gatherings. She is noisy as ever, I must say, despite all the gossip about your sudden disappearance. I have not noticed any particular young stag keeping her company yet. Perhaps her fortune cannot compensate for her giggling. You may be sure that she will insist on answers soon, so be sure to keep your head down. Her mama will grow impatient soon enough, and move on to fresh prey.
William lay the letter aside and watched the flames in the hearth leap up to lick the blackened stones around them. It was not just Violetta’s terrifying mama he had to wait out. It was his own father, and the fact hurt abominably. More than he had expected, in fact. He took a sip of whiskey and relished the burn as it rolled down his throat and pooled in his stomach.
Would he really rot out here in Ireland until his father died? He had initially been prepared to do just that. Standing there on the deck of the ship, watching Ireland’s foggy bulk rise up from the cold sea, he had been quite resolved to give up England, his home, and his inheritance until his father went to the grave, taking with him his out-dated opinions and his grandfathers’ edicts. His foolish notions about how William Archwood, future Earl of Tivington, should live. And who he should live it with.
It would be a self-inflicted punishment that would be as hard on him as it would be on his father, of course, but truly, William believed, he had been driven to such dire actions. No matter what the documents said, he would never marry Violetta deLacey. The signatures on those yellowed parchments were not his. They were not even hers. Lady Violetta deLacey had been a babe in a cradle, and he, William, a boy still riding his pony on a leading rein, when his father affianced him to the Duke of Marchwood’s first-born child.
He still remembered peering into the cradle in the ducal nursery, looking at the little bride-to-be in her lace and ribbons, and looking back at his father in confusion. “I’m to marry a baby?” he’d asked, scandalized, and the men and the nursemaids had laughed affectionately.
It had been his grandfather’s doing, of course; that old man had never been able to relinquish control of any family doing, and when he had known himself failing in health, he had sewn up whatever loose end in the Archwood household he could. Even the tenant farmers were instructed on what to plant for the next five years. The supervisors of the Caribbean holdings were sent lengthy letters detailing their course of business for the foreseeable future. When the old earl died, leaving William’s father the head of the family, he was left with little to do but take his young son hunting.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about marrying the baby,” he’d told his shocked son at the engagement. “She’ll grow up to be a lovely lady, and you’ll not have to worry about any of those fortune-hunters when you grow up yourself. Now let’s go see about a new pony!”
The pony had been a welcome distraction, but even now, William could remember his bewildered hurt at the thought of being affianced to that plump babe in a bassinet. His grandfather might have insisted that he marry the girl, but William was already developing the sort of independence (“hard-headedness,” his father would say) that made him chafe against the authority of others to run his life.
Seventeen years later, he was even less
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