Read Online Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand by Carla Kelly - Free Book Online
Authors: Carla Kelly
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rode wearily up the lane to Moreland, lighted by a full moon that came out from behind a bank of clouds like a benediction. The house was dark, which was not surprising, considering the lateness of the hour. To his dismay, he discovered that it was also empty, and he did not have a key.
"Blast and damn," he said out loud into the still night, irritated at himself for crowding on all sail to get to a deserted house in the middle of the night. He cleared off the snow and still holding the reins, sat down on the broad front steps of his property. Despite his disgruntlement, he had to admit that it was beautiful in the moonlight, the snow shimmering here and there like diamonds, the air so still that the trees were diamond-encrusted, too. The orchard to his left was dark and brooding, giving no hint of the promise of apple blossoms in the spring.
"Well, you brilliant man, now what?" he asked himself. The cold was seeping through his coat and his leather breeches, and his toes were beginning to tingle.
He thought of the dower house then, and got to his feet, wiping the snow off his cold rump, then swinging into the saddle again. Perhaps if the old widow wasn't too hard of hearing, or too much of a high stickler, she might let him in to sleep on her sofa. He rode around to the back of the estate, vaguely remembering the direction of the smaller house.
There it was, under the bare trees, smaller than he remembered, but a welcome sight. There was no smoke in the chimney there, either, but a lamp's light glimmered in an upstairs bedroom. That is at least hopeful, he thought as he encouraged his horse with a little dig in the ribs.
He knocked on the door and waited. After a long moment, he heard light footsteps on the stairs.
"Who is it, please?" came a small voice behind the door. She sounded apprehensive, and he couldn't marvel at that, considering the lateness of the hour. The old widow probably didn't have much male company, especially with two spinster daughters.
"I am Lord Winn, and I own this property," he said a little louder, in case she should be hard of hearing. "Could I come in? I think Tibbie Winslow was not expecting me so soon."
The key turned in the lock then, and the door opened upon the prettiest woman he had seen in years, perhaps ever. Her eyes were brown and round like a child's, with high-arched eyebrows that gave her flawless face a surprised expression. My God, I have never seen skin like that, he thought as he stared at her loveliness. She was all pink and cream, with dark brown hair tumbling out from under her nightcap. She was dressed in nightgown and a robe too large for her. It looked like a man's robe.
"You may come in, my lord," she was saying as he stood there gaping at her like a mooncalf. "It's too cold to stand overmuch on ceremony, if that's what you are expecting."
He laughed and came into the house after dropping Nameless's reins. "Oh, no, no ceremony. Now tell me, is your mother still up? I must ask a favor for the night."
She tilted her head in a way that he found perfectly adorable. "I am the mother here," she said. "What were you expecting?"
He stared at her in surprise, and she gazed back with that natural inquisitive look that was growing on him by the minute.
"Well, I mean, Tibbie mentioned a widow, and I thought, of course . .. well, you know .. ." he stopped, tongue-tied and feeling like a bumpkin.
"Oh." She looked down at the floor a moment, then back at his face. "My lord, young men die, too. As a former soldier, lam sure you are much acquainted with this phenomenon."
"I am sorry, Mrs.— Mrs.—" he stammered.
"Drew," she said, and held out her hand. "My husband was vicar of Whitcomb parish. Let me help you off with your coat, my lord."
They shook hands. Before he could protest, she grasped his coat from the back, and he had no choice but to pull his arms from the sleeves. For a little woman, she was a managing female, he thought as he obliged her. "I was wondering, Mrs.
"Blast and damn," he said out loud into the still night, irritated at himself for crowding on all sail to get to a deserted house in the middle of the night. He cleared off the snow and still holding the reins, sat down on the broad front steps of his property. Despite his disgruntlement, he had to admit that it was beautiful in the moonlight, the snow shimmering here and there like diamonds, the air so still that the trees were diamond-encrusted, too. The orchard to his left was dark and brooding, giving no hint of the promise of apple blossoms in the spring.
"Well, you brilliant man, now what?" he asked himself. The cold was seeping through his coat and his leather breeches, and his toes were beginning to tingle.
He thought of the dower house then, and got to his feet, wiping the snow off his cold rump, then swinging into the saddle again. Perhaps if the old widow wasn't too hard of hearing, or too much of a high stickler, she might let him in to sleep on her sofa. He rode around to the back of the estate, vaguely remembering the direction of the smaller house.
There it was, under the bare trees, smaller than he remembered, but a welcome sight. There was no smoke in the chimney there, either, but a lamp's light glimmered in an upstairs bedroom. That is at least hopeful, he thought as he encouraged his horse with a little dig in the ribs.
He knocked on the door and waited. After a long moment, he heard light footsteps on the stairs.
"Who is it, please?" came a small voice behind the door. She sounded apprehensive, and he couldn't marvel at that, considering the lateness of the hour. The old widow probably didn't have much male company, especially with two spinster daughters.
"I am Lord Winn, and I own this property," he said a little louder, in case she should be hard of hearing. "Could I come in? I think Tibbie Winslow was not expecting me so soon."
The key turned in the lock then, and the door opened upon the prettiest woman he had seen in years, perhaps ever. Her eyes were brown and round like a child's, with high-arched eyebrows that gave her flawless face a surprised expression. My God, I have never seen skin like that, he thought as he stared at her loveliness. She was all pink and cream, with dark brown hair tumbling out from under her nightcap. She was dressed in nightgown and a robe too large for her. It looked like a man's robe.
"You may come in, my lord," she was saying as he stood there gaping at her like a mooncalf. "It's too cold to stand overmuch on ceremony, if that's what you are expecting."
He laughed and came into the house after dropping Nameless's reins. "Oh, no, no ceremony. Now tell me, is your mother still up? I must ask a favor for the night."
She tilted her head in a way that he found perfectly adorable. "I am the mother here," she said. "What were you expecting?"
He stared at her in surprise, and she gazed back with that natural inquisitive look that was growing on him by the minute.
"Well, I mean, Tibbie mentioned a widow, and I thought, of course . .. well, you know .. ." he stopped, tongue-tied and feeling like a bumpkin.
"Oh." She looked down at the floor a moment, then back at his face. "My lord, young men die, too. As a former soldier, lam sure you are much acquainted with this phenomenon."
"I am sorry, Mrs.— Mrs.—" he stammered.
"Drew," she said, and held out her hand. "My husband was vicar of Whitcomb parish. Let me help you off with your coat, my lord."
They shook hands. Before he could protest, she grasped his coat from the back, and he had no choice but to pull his arms from the sleeves. For a little woman, she was a managing female, he thought as he obliged her. "I was wondering, Mrs.
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