Read Online That Scandalous Summer by Meredith Duran - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Meredith Duran
Ads: Link
man.
Or perhaps his discomfort came from the slow dissolution of his best defense against the widow. Lady Bountifuls did not impress him; too often their good intentions were diminished by their transparent distaste for the objects of their compassion. Yet Mrs. Chudderley seemed easy in the Browards’ company, and her attitude fostered an atmosphere of informal good cheer. Mrs. Broward, one hand on her great belly, wondered if Mrs. Chudderley hadn’t any suggestions for names. Young Miss Broward solicited her opinions on London fashions. Various little ones tugged at her skirts. At one point an ominous ripping sound was heard, but while Mrs. Broward gasped and yanked the offending tyke away, Mrs. Chudderley only laughed.
This was clearly not the first time she had visited the Browards. Nor would it be the last, judging by the warm invitations that followed them as they finally took their leave, all of which centered on the prospect of her return as soon as the babe was born.
“Well,” he said as they stepped back into the village lane. So she enjoyed the company of farmers. So he rather liked her for it. No matter. Circumstances dictated that he take his leave all the more quickly as a result. “I must get to my other patients. I’ll bid you farewell.”
Mrs. Chudderley, caught in the process of untangling the ribbons of her parasol, slanted him a look. “Running off so soon?”
He hesitated. “That’s a great lot of ribbons on that parasol. Do they serve any purpose?”
She laughed. “Beauty,” she said. “That is their purpose.”
Then the ribbons weren’t required. Her eyes were the only adornment she needed. They were extraordinary, such a pale shade of green, and they tilted ever so slightly at the outward corners. They put him in mind, somehow, of the cat statues in the Egyptian wing of the British Museum. Ancient eyes, much older than the face they graced.
Out of nowhere, he recalled her tears upon waking a week ago. What, or who, had made her weep?
It is none of your business.
“Anyway,” she said, “your home and mine lie in the same direction. Shan’t we walk together?”
Shaking out the parasol a final time, she started down the road without a backward glance—assuming, as women of her beauty usually did, that he would follow.
Their respective destinations did lie down the same road. He could think of no excuse to go back into town. And so, with a sigh, he followed her—as men, he supposed, usually did.
“You seem to know the Browards well,” he said as he fell into step beside her. It struck him as unusual. Mostcountry gentry strove to distinguish themselves from their tenants.
“Indeed,” she said. “I fund their eldest sons’ educations. Very bright lads, one at Harrington, the other at University College in London. And I’ve known Mary and Thomas—Mr. and Mrs. Broward—since we were children.”
“Ah. You grew up in this district, then.”
“In the winters, yes. Didn’t you know?” She sighed. “And here I imagined that nobody in Bosbrea had any topic of discussion more interesting than me.”
Her rueful smile lent her remark a self-deprecating air, one he liked very much. His better instincts warred against habit. Habit won. “That is difficult to imagine,” he said.
His reward was a flutter of mink-brown lashes. “How kind of you. In fact, I’m kin to the Browards through my mother. My father bought Havilland Hall to keep her from growing too homesick.”
A mésalliance, then. Startling to hear her divulge it so casually. “I see.”
She lifted a brow. “Yes, I’m sure you do. Not the most glorious match for Papa, of course. His family was most displeased. But . . .” Her mouth pulled in a sideways smile. “Mama and Papa loved each other dreadfully. Eventually they won over even the stoniest of his relatives.”
The cynic in him rather doubted that. But it made a good tale for circulation. “So you’re related to some of your tenants. That’s
Or perhaps his discomfort came from the slow dissolution of his best defense against the widow. Lady Bountifuls did not impress him; too often their good intentions were diminished by their transparent distaste for the objects of their compassion. Yet Mrs. Chudderley seemed easy in the Browards’ company, and her attitude fostered an atmosphere of informal good cheer. Mrs. Broward, one hand on her great belly, wondered if Mrs. Chudderley hadn’t any suggestions for names. Young Miss Broward solicited her opinions on London fashions. Various little ones tugged at her skirts. At one point an ominous ripping sound was heard, but while Mrs. Broward gasped and yanked the offending tyke away, Mrs. Chudderley only laughed.
This was clearly not the first time she had visited the Browards. Nor would it be the last, judging by the warm invitations that followed them as they finally took their leave, all of which centered on the prospect of her return as soon as the babe was born.
“Well,” he said as they stepped back into the village lane. So she enjoyed the company of farmers. So he rather liked her for it. No matter. Circumstances dictated that he take his leave all the more quickly as a result. “I must get to my other patients. I’ll bid you farewell.”
Mrs. Chudderley, caught in the process of untangling the ribbons of her parasol, slanted him a look. “Running off so soon?”
He hesitated. “That’s a great lot of ribbons on that parasol. Do they serve any purpose?”
She laughed. “Beauty,” she said. “That is their purpose.”
Then the ribbons weren’t required. Her eyes were the only adornment she needed. They were extraordinary, such a pale shade of green, and they tilted ever so slightly at the outward corners. They put him in mind, somehow, of the cat statues in the Egyptian wing of the British Museum. Ancient eyes, much older than the face they graced.
Out of nowhere, he recalled her tears upon waking a week ago. What, or who, had made her weep?
It is none of your business.
“Anyway,” she said, “your home and mine lie in the same direction. Shan’t we walk together?”
Shaking out the parasol a final time, she started down the road without a backward glance—assuming, as women of her beauty usually did, that he would follow.
Their respective destinations did lie down the same road. He could think of no excuse to go back into town. And so, with a sigh, he followed her—as men, he supposed, usually did.
“You seem to know the Browards well,” he said as he fell into step beside her. It struck him as unusual. Mostcountry gentry strove to distinguish themselves from their tenants.
“Indeed,” she said. “I fund their eldest sons’ educations. Very bright lads, one at Harrington, the other at University College in London. And I’ve known Mary and Thomas—Mr. and Mrs. Broward—since we were children.”
“Ah. You grew up in this district, then.”
“In the winters, yes. Didn’t you know?” She sighed. “And here I imagined that nobody in Bosbrea had any topic of discussion more interesting than me.”
Her rueful smile lent her remark a self-deprecating air, one he liked very much. His better instincts warred against habit. Habit won. “That is difficult to imagine,” he said.
His reward was a flutter of mink-brown lashes. “How kind of you. In fact, I’m kin to the Browards through my mother. My father bought Havilland Hall to keep her from growing too homesick.”
A mésalliance, then. Startling to hear her divulge it so casually. “I see.”
She lifted a brow. “Yes, I’m sure you do. Not the most glorious match for Papa, of course. His family was most displeased. But . . .” Her mouth pulled in a sideways smile. “Mama and Papa loved each other dreadfully. Eventually they won over even the stoniest of his relatives.”
The cynic in him rather doubted that. But it made a good tale for circulation. “So you’re related to some of your tenants. That’s
Similar Books
