Read Online That Scandalous Summer by Meredith Duran - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Meredith Duran
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bound to be messy.”
The slightest edge entered her voice. “I suppose it might be, if the landlord is unjust.”
In return, he felt mildly annoyed by her accidentalimplication: that his own family behaved less than justly with their own people. Of course, she thought him a mere doctor. Nevertheless . . . “With crop prices sinking, economies become necessary. One might say that causes an inevitable tension between those who own the land and those who work it.”
She gave a little laugh. “You sound like a university lecturer.”
Good God. What he’d sounded like was Alastair. “Perish the thought, Mrs. Chudderley.”
“Or . . . like a man who has some personal experience of land management?” Her pause plainly invited him to elaborate. When he did not, she added pointedly, “In the north, no doubt.”
Ah. He allowed his smile to widen. Clearly his reserve had pricked her. “What an excellent memory you have. In the north, indeed.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I do believe you’re teasing me now.”
“You might be right.” It gratified something foolish in him to be the cause of her rising color—and to be studied so closely by such magnificent eyes. He lifted a brow, and watched her blush deepen.
Really, she was surprisingly easy to ruffle for a professional beauty. A man could make a hobby of it.
“Now you’re staring,” she said tartly.
“Surely you’re accustomed to that,” he said. “I imagine it’s almost obligatory.”
No false pretense of modesty from this widow: she did not even blink. “I’m accustomed to a great many things,” she said. “Polite conversation, for instance—which generally commences with a frank discussion of one’s natal place. But perhaps such niceties are onlycommon in the south of the country. I will leave it to you to enlighten me.”
Oh, but she was clever. He vaguely recalled tales of her wildness, but none of her wit. Typical unfairness, that. “It’s true, we northerners are famously reticent savages. But I promise you, we abandoned most of our more boorish customs once the Picts fell from power. You’re quite safe with me.”
“Oh, I do not think you a savage,” she said sweetly. “In fact, you seem a much more evolved specimen—a man whose favorite subjects do not include himself. Why, I’m not certain I’ve ever encountered your kind before!”
He laughed. In fact, only the barest thread of common sense leashed his tongue, for a man’s instinct, when holding such a woman’s attention, was to babble endlessly, lest she find a reason to look away.
Christ, but she was beautiful. He wondered how wild she became, exactly. He had a brief vision of her dancing atop a table, garbed only in a string of black pearls. Alas, it seemed a bit too Parisian, even for her.
“You find me amusing?” She sounded pleased by the notion.
“I find you persistent—particularly in the face of such boorishly northern company.”
Her nose wrinkled. “You are not nearly the northerner you claim to be. Your address shows breeding; the way you walk suggests a lifetime of sport. Cricket, I think?”
“Rugby,” he answered before he could think better of it.
“Ah.” She sounded satisfied, as well she might. Rugby was a sport most often confined to public school playing fields. But he had not given himself away.
“A common game in the north,” he said. “Mr. Pershall also played it as a boy.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Nevertheless . . . yes, I find your presentation suspiciously polished for a boor. Your apparel, on the other hand . . .” She shook her head. “You do know we have a very fine haberdasher in Brosbrea? You’ve just now met his wife.”
Now his laughter was full-throated, impossible to contain. “A blunt-spoken woman! Mrs. Chudderley, if my kind is rare, yours is rarer.”
Her smile widened to a grin. “Then what a pair we are! But you, I think, are determined to remain a mystery, while I am an open book.”
Ah, but
The slightest edge entered her voice. “I suppose it might be, if the landlord is unjust.”
In return, he felt mildly annoyed by her accidentalimplication: that his own family behaved less than justly with their own people. Of course, she thought him a mere doctor. Nevertheless . . . “With crop prices sinking, economies become necessary. One might say that causes an inevitable tension between those who own the land and those who work it.”
She gave a little laugh. “You sound like a university lecturer.”
Good God. What he’d sounded like was Alastair. “Perish the thought, Mrs. Chudderley.”
“Or . . . like a man who has some personal experience of land management?” Her pause plainly invited him to elaborate. When he did not, she added pointedly, “In the north, no doubt.”
Ah. He allowed his smile to widen. Clearly his reserve had pricked her. “What an excellent memory you have. In the north, indeed.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I do believe you’re teasing me now.”
“You might be right.” It gratified something foolish in him to be the cause of her rising color—and to be studied so closely by such magnificent eyes. He lifted a brow, and watched her blush deepen.
Really, she was surprisingly easy to ruffle for a professional beauty. A man could make a hobby of it.
“Now you’re staring,” she said tartly.
“Surely you’re accustomed to that,” he said. “I imagine it’s almost obligatory.”
No false pretense of modesty from this widow: she did not even blink. “I’m accustomed to a great many things,” she said. “Polite conversation, for instance—which generally commences with a frank discussion of one’s natal place. But perhaps such niceties are onlycommon in the south of the country. I will leave it to you to enlighten me.”
Oh, but she was clever. He vaguely recalled tales of her wildness, but none of her wit. Typical unfairness, that. “It’s true, we northerners are famously reticent savages. But I promise you, we abandoned most of our more boorish customs once the Picts fell from power. You’re quite safe with me.”
“Oh, I do not think you a savage,” she said sweetly. “In fact, you seem a much more evolved specimen—a man whose favorite subjects do not include himself. Why, I’m not certain I’ve ever encountered your kind before!”
He laughed. In fact, only the barest thread of common sense leashed his tongue, for a man’s instinct, when holding such a woman’s attention, was to babble endlessly, lest she find a reason to look away.
Christ, but she was beautiful. He wondered how wild she became, exactly. He had a brief vision of her dancing atop a table, garbed only in a string of black pearls. Alas, it seemed a bit too Parisian, even for her.
“You find me amusing?” She sounded pleased by the notion.
“I find you persistent—particularly in the face of such boorishly northern company.”
Her nose wrinkled. “You are not nearly the northerner you claim to be. Your address shows breeding; the way you walk suggests a lifetime of sport. Cricket, I think?”
“Rugby,” he answered before he could think better of it.
“Ah.” She sounded satisfied, as well she might. Rugby was a sport most often confined to public school playing fields. But he had not given himself away.
“A common game in the north,” he said. “Mr. Pershall also played it as a boy.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Nevertheless . . . yes, I find your presentation suspiciously polished for a boor. Your apparel, on the other hand . . .” She shook her head. “You do know we have a very fine haberdasher in Brosbrea? You’ve just now met his wife.”
Now his laughter was full-throated, impossible to contain. “A blunt-spoken woman! Mrs. Chudderley, if my kind is rare, yours is rarer.”
Her smile widened to a grin. “Then what a pair we are! But you, I think, are determined to remain a mystery, while I am an open book.”
Ah, but
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