Read Online The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel by Stefanie Sloane - Free Book Online
Authors: Stefanie Sloane
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parade. “I fear there is not sufficient time at the present. Let me think on it.”
Her mouth opened and closed with outrage. “Within reason, my lord. The price must be within reason.”
“Of course,” Marcus answered with a telling grin, turning Pokey to intercept the approaching servant.
“Tell Sir Arthur that Lord Weston has come,” he said authoritatively, and watched the servant hie himself to the house before he turned Pokey toward the stables and into a slow trot.
He looked back only once to where Miss Tisdale lay.He could swear he saw the heat of anger wafting up from her in waves.
Within reason indeed
.
Marcus had known the Honorable Ambrose Dixon as a boy, though he’d forgotten most of the details, save for one: He’d disliked him immensely. The man had always been snide, despite the fact that they were not equals in rank. Dixon was the second son of the Earl of Swaton, pushed further down the line of inheritance by the arrival some three years before of the current earl’s twin boys.
Comfortably ensconced in a sturdy brown leather armchair, which time and several generations of Tisdale males had worn soft on the cushioned seat and along the rounded arms, Marcus studied both Dixon and Tisdale while drinking what was arguably the best brandy he’d ever had the good fortune to swallow.
Dixon was tall, and while slight of build, he possessed something in the way of looks that Marcus was sure women might find appealing. He also drank his brandy with gusto and spoke in a firm, condescending tone.
It was not until he inquired after Miss Tisdale that Marcus truly began to understand her hesitancy.
“Really, Tisdale, this business of allowing the girl to wander about the property must end,” Dixon pronounced with barely concealed annoyance, swirling the last of his brandy about in the cut glass before finishing it off. “After all, it’s not as if we’re in the Highlands of Scotland, where women run barefoot through the heather. Isn’t that right, Weston?” he baited.
Yes, that look of distaste on Miss Tisdale’s face when she’d uttered Dixon’s name made so much more sense now, Marcus thought.
Marcus looked about the room for a broadsword with which to clout the bastard. Finding none, he took a long pull of brandy and drank.
“Perhaps she saw you coming?” Marcus queried innocently, enjoying the slow heat of the superior brandy.
Dixon discarded his glass on the window ledge then eased back into his leather chair. “You always were quite the clown,” he answered, clearly irritated.
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Sir Arthur added hastily, finishing his brandy. He winked at Marcus then picked up the Waterford decanter and offered Dixon a second glass. “For your efforts, my lord.”
Dixon gestured toward a fresh glass that accompanied the decanter and nodded. “It’s the least you can do, I suppose,” he said jokingly, though it was clear he would have expected no less.
Sir Arthur poured the man’s second glass and settled back in his chair. “Now, Weston, tell me, is this not the finest brandy?”
“Without a doubt,” Marcus answered, giving Tisdale a genuine smile. “You are a man of your word.”
Tisdale looked terribly pleased with himself. “A fine compliment indeed.”
“And where might one secure a supply of his own?” Marcus asked, adding, “Theoretically, of course.”
Sir Arthur let out a bark of laughter, and Dixon cringed. “Jolly good fun, you are, Weston. Jolly good.” His host leaned in, dropping his elbows to the broad mahogany desk topped in gilt-tooled leather. “How much, theoretically speaking,” he said with emphasis, “might you like to acquire?”
Dixon set his glass down with a heavy clunk. “Really, Tisdale, I don’t know that this is something—”
“Come now, Dixon. Everyone through the length and whole of Weymouth knows of such things. The brandy’s origins are hardly a secret. And Weston is—”
“Be that as it
Her mouth opened and closed with outrage. “Within reason, my lord. The price must be within reason.”
“Of course,” Marcus answered with a telling grin, turning Pokey to intercept the approaching servant.
“Tell Sir Arthur that Lord Weston has come,” he said authoritatively, and watched the servant hie himself to the house before he turned Pokey toward the stables and into a slow trot.
He looked back only once to where Miss Tisdale lay.He could swear he saw the heat of anger wafting up from her in waves.
Within reason indeed
.
Marcus had known the Honorable Ambrose Dixon as a boy, though he’d forgotten most of the details, save for one: He’d disliked him immensely. The man had always been snide, despite the fact that they were not equals in rank. Dixon was the second son of the Earl of Swaton, pushed further down the line of inheritance by the arrival some three years before of the current earl’s twin boys.
Comfortably ensconced in a sturdy brown leather armchair, which time and several generations of Tisdale males had worn soft on the cushioned seat and along the rounded arms, Marcus studied both Dixon and Tisdale while drinking what was arguably the best brandy he’d ever had the good fortune to swallow.
Dixon was tall, and while slight of build, he possessed something in the way of looks that Marcus was sure women might find appealing. He also drank his brandy with gusto and spoke in a firm, condescending tone.
It was not until he inquired after Miss Tisdale that Marcus truly began to understand her hesitancy.
“Really, Tisdale, this business of allowing the girl to wander about the property must end,” Dixon pronounced with barely concealed annoyance, swirling the last of his brandy about in the cut glass before finishing it off. “After all, it’s not as if we’re in the Highlands of Scotland, where women run barefoot through the heather. Isn’t that right, Weston?” he baited.
Yes, that look of distaste on Miss Tisdale’s face when she’d uttered Dixon’s name made so much more sense now, Marcus thought.
Marcus looked about the room for a broadsword with which to clout the bastard. Finding none, he took a long pull of brandy and drank.
“Perhaps she saw you coming?” Marcus queried innocently, enjoying the slow heat of the superior brandy.
Dixon discarded his glass on the window ledge then eased back into his leather chair. “You always were quite the clown,” he answered, clearly irritated.
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Sir Arthur added hastily, finishing his brandy. He winked at Marcus then picked up the Waterford decanter and offered Dixon a second glass. “For your efforts, my lord.”
Dixon gestured toward a fresh glass that accompanied the decanter and nodded. “It’s the least you can do, I suppose,” he said jokingly, though it was clear he would have expected no less.
Sir Arthur poured the man’s second glass and settled back in his chair. “Now, Weston, tell me, is this not the finest brandy?”
“Without a doubt,” Marcus answered, giving Tisdale a genuine smile. “You are a man of your word.”
Tisdale looked terribly pleased with himself. “A fine compliment indeed.”
“And where might one secure a supply of his own?” Marcus asked, adding, “Theoretically, of course.”
Sir Arthur let out a bark of laughter, and Dixon cringed. “Jolly good fun, you are, Weston. Jolly good.” His host leaned in, dropping his elbows to the broad mahogany desk topped in gilt-tooled leather. “How much, theoretically speaking,” he said with emphasis, “might you like to acquire?”
Dixon set his glass down with a heavy clunk. “Really, Tisdale, I don’t know that this is something—”
“Come now, Dixon. Everyone through the length and whole of Weymouth knows of such things. The brandy’s origins are hardly a secret. And Weston is—”
“Be that as it
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