Read Online Rakehell's Widow by Sandra Heath - Free Book Online
Authors: Sandra Heath
Tags: Regency Romance
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business of Captain Fran cis, Alabeth knew she did not dare to take any chance where her hasty, romantically inclined sister was concerned.
The grave misgivings she had felt that night at Charter leigh when she had at last given in to her father’s wishes returned to her now as she placed the letter in the silver dish in the vestibule. You should have refused, Alabeth Manvers, she told herself, you should have refused….
Chapter 8
Mrs. Bourne came up trumps for the dinner party, producing a meal which all the guests pronounced to be superb. For Alabeth, too, it was something of a triumph, as it was her first venture into entertaining since Robert’s death and it had been important to her that it went well. Jillian was perhaps a little restrained still, but she abstained from being too difficult and her manner was put down to shyness rather than willfulness.
Sometime before midnight the majority of guests departed, leaving only Octavia, Charles Allister, and the rather elderly bachelor Lord Gainsford. They sat comfortably in the drawing room, enjoying a liqueur with walnuts and raisins, and the great windows stood open to let in the cool night air. The smell of the plane trees wafted in from the square, together with the sound of occasional laughter from the direction of Gunter’s, where a number of people had adjourned after the theater. The drawing room was a magnificent chamber, its walls hung with red silk and its ceiling a marvelous confection of gilt plaster- work, scrolls and leaves, lozenges, and spirals. On the floor was a Kidderminster carpet, woven especially to echo the ceiling design, and the whole thing was set off to per fection by the furniture upholstered in dark-ruby velvet. Dominating everything was a white marble and ormolu fireplace, a prime example of Adam’s genius, and in the corners of the room stood particularly handsome candle stands, their metalwork gleaming in the soft light.
Octavia sat comfortably on a shield-back chair, glancing appreciatively around. “This is a beautiful room, Alabeth, I find it quite perfect.”
“My father would be delighted to hear you say so.”
“No doubt, which is why I would never tell him.” Octavia chuckled.
“You are quite incorrigible,” she replied, smiling.
Lord Gainsford nodded, his white wig leaving a dusting of powder on his otherwise impeccable black velvet shoulder. “Always were a regular wretch, Octavia, takin’ great delight in makin’ a fellow’s life a misery.”
The Duchess beamed, smoothing her russet taffeta skirts. “You had your chance Gainsford, but you missed it and let me marry Seaham instead.”
“M’dear, I couldn’t afford you; you’d have made a beggar of me inside a month.”
Octavia’s eyes were speculative. “I wonder what sort of go we’d have made of it? I admit to always liking that wicked look in your eyes; it promised all manner of enter taining things.”
He flushed a little and cleared his throat. “Not in front of the little gel, Octavia, it ain’t done!” He glanced at Jillian.
Octavia smiled again. “Come, now, I’ve said nothing to make Jillian blush, have I, my dear?”
Jillian shook her head. “No, of course not.”
“You’re looking quite delightful tonight—isn’t she, Gainsford?”
“Yes, quite devastating. You remind me of my dear sister, for she was an exquisite little thing too.”
Octavia pursed her lips wickedly. “Your sister always said you were a tyrant, never letting her live her own life and vetting every single beau who had the temerity to come calling.”
“It’s a fellow’s duty to see his sister comes to no grief, and I did well enough for her, got her a Marquis.”
Octavia looked even more wicked. “She said you were a tyrant, and when I realized that your name was on Alabeth’s list tonight, I simply couldn’t resist placing a great deal of money on a certain nag in the Derby.”
“What nag?”
“Why, Tyrant, of course!” Octavia was
The grave misgivings she had felt that night at Charter leigh when she had at last given in to her father’s wishes returned to her now as she placed the letter in the silver dish in the vestibule. You should have refused, Alabeth Manvers, she told herself, you should have refused….
Chapter 8
Mrs. Bourne came up trumps for the dinner party, producing a meal which all the guests pronounced to be superb. For Alabeth, too, it was something of a triumph, as it was her first venture into entertaining since Robert’s death and it had been important to her that it went well. Jillian was perhaps a little restrained still, but she abstained from being too difficult and her manner was put down to shyness rather than willfulness.
Sometime before midnight the majority of guests departed, leaving only Octavia, Charles Allister, and the rather elderly bachelor Lord Gainsford. They sat comfortably in the drawing room, enjoying a liqueur with walnuts and raisins, and the great windows stood open to let in the cool night air. The smell of the plane trees wafted in from the square, together with the sound of occasional laughter from the direction of Gunter’s, where a number of people had adjourned after the theater. The drawing room was a magnificent chamber, its walls hung with red silk and its ceiling a marvelous confection of gilt plaster- work, scrolls and leaves, lozenges, and spirals. On the floor was a Kidderminster carpet, woven especially to echo the ceiling design, and the whole thing was set off to per fection by the furniture upholstered in dark-ruby velvet. Dominating everything was a white marble and ormolu fireplace, a prime example of Adam’s genius, and in the corners of the room stood particularly handsome candle stands, their metalwork gleaming in the soft light.
Octavia sat comfortably on a shield-back chair, glancing appreciatively around. “This is a beautiful room, Alabeth, I find it quite perfect.”
“My father would be delighted to hear you say so.”
“No doubt, which is why I would never tell him.” Octavia chuckled.
“You are quite incorrigible,” she replied, smiling.
Lord Gainsford nodded, his white wig leaving a dusting of powder on his otherwise impeccable black velvet shoulder. “Always were a regular wretch, Octavia, takin’ great delight in makin’ a fellow’s life a misery.”
The Duchess beamed, smoothing her russet taffeta skirts. “You had your chance Gainsford, but you missed it and let me marry Seaham instead.”
“M’dear, I couldn’t afford you; you’d have made a beggar of me inside a month.”
Octavia’s eyes were speculative. “I wonder what sort of go we’d have made of it? I admit to always liking that wicked look in your eyes; it promised all manner of enter taining things.”
He flushed a little and cleared his throat. “Not in front of the little gel, Octavia, it ain’t done!” He glanced at Jillian.
Octavia smiled again. “Come, now, I’ve said nothing to make Jillian blush, have I, my dear?”
Jillian shook her head. “No, of course not.”
“You’re looking quite delightful tonight—isn’t she, Gainsford?”
“Yes, quite devastating. You remind me of my dear sister, for she was an exquisite little thing too.”
Octavia pursed her lips wickedly. “Your sister always said you were a tyrant, never letting her live her own life and vetting every single beau who had the temerity to come calling.”
“It’s a fellow’s duty to see his sister comes to no grief, and I did well enough for her, got her a Marquis.”
Octavia looked even more wicked. “She said you were a tyrant, and when I realized that your name was on Alabeth’s list tonight, I simply couldn’t resist placing a great deal of money on a certain nag in the Derby.”
“What nag?”
“Why, Tyrant, of course!” Octavia was
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