Read Online The Bad Luck Wedding Night, Bad Luck Wedding series #5 (Bad Luck Abroad trilogy) by Geralyn Dawson - Free Book Online
Authors: Geralyn Dawson
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mother. She is a dragon in disguise. Charlotte's not strong enough to withstand her."
"I hope you're wrong, but Charlotte is a sweet, gentle girl. Melanie and Aurora say she is much like your mother."
"And look what my father did to her."
"Aha, there's the difference, brother. Your father destroyed your mother's will. It wasn't her guid-mother who did it. I like Charlotte's beau. It took a strong man to convince his mother to travel north in winter. I believe Lord Pratt will defend his bride to her. Mark my words."
"I hope you are right. Otherwise, he'll have me to answer to."
A warm sparkle filled her brilliant blue eyes, and her face glowed with love. "So fierce and protective. You make me think of one of those Bengal tigers you and my Jake saw on your travels. You are a credit to your title, Lord Weston. A credit to your family—both the English and the Scottish ones."
"Thank you, Two."
She snorted, just as he had expected. Gillian didn't appreciate Nick's recent jest of numbering his sisters by birth order. That, of course, made him use the term more often. Leaning over, he kissed her cheek, then offered her his arm. "Now, as much as I dread the hour to come, I imagine we've skulked out here in the hallway long enough. I know that bruiser of a husband of yours is waiting for you within. May I escort you to the musicale?"
At that point Lady Pratt warmed up her voice by singing a scale. Gillian winced. "Ach, upon reflection, I do believe Jake can wait. I find I am suffering a maternal craving."
Immediately Nick grew concerned, and his gaze dropped to her blossoming waistline. "What do you need, love? Milk? A piece of chicken? An Arbroath smokie?"
"Nae, I canna abide fish this week. Not like last." She jerked her head toward the sitting room and said, "What I need now is peace."
"Then why are we standing here?"
Twenty minutes later they were hidden away in the library. Nick refilled his sister's water glass, then took a seat beside her on a brocade upholstered settee with a glass of his favorite Rowanclere malt. She eyed his whisky and sighed. Having grown up on excellent whisky, Gillian Delaney ordinarily could drink the Russian tsar under the table, but her pregnancy had soured her on the taste of spirits. Because she constantly bemoaned the fact, Nick particularly enjoyed partaking in front of her.
Such meanness, after all, was what brothers were for.
As she grumbled at him, he chuckled into his drink. His thoughts returned to Gillian's comment that he was a credit to his family. He was glad she believed it so. His own father certainly hadn't shared that point of view, and it was because of him that Nick had spent years believing this beloved sister had died. "If he wasn't already dead, I'd shoot him."
Gillian lowered her water glass. "Brooding about your father again, Nick?"
"Aye." The old bastard was winning from the grave. Nick had thought the game was over when word reached him in Calcutta that the Third Marquess of Weston had cocked up his toes. He should have known the blackguard wouldn't let such a minor thing as death defeat him in his vendetta against his son.
The so-called Great Game, the clandestine struggle between Britain and Russia for mastery of Central Asia wasn't the only competition—or even the primary one—for Nick's attention during the years he'd spent in Asia. His personal Great Game had been the battle to stay alive and thereby thwart his father's plans.
It was an ugly truth he'd learned after leaving Fort Worth and traveling to England in response to his father's summons. Nick hadn't been called home and welcomed into the bosom of his family, not by a long shot. He'd been the third marquess's designated sacrificial lamb.
Nick's father had been a political animal, with a special interest in foreign affairs, particularly those of India. Rumor had it that he'd lobbied to be named viceroy before Lord Lytton was named to the job, but his level of dedication had been doubted.
"I hope you're wrong, but Charlotte is a sweet, gentle girl. Melanie and Aurora say she is much like your mother."
"And look what my father did to her."
"Aha, there's the difference, brother. Your father destroyed your mother's will. It wasn't her guid-mother who did it. I like Charlotte's beau. It took a strong man to convince his mother to travel north in winter. I believe Lord Pratt will defend his bride to her. Mark my words."
"I hope you are right. Otherwise, he'll have me to answer to."
A warm sparkle filled her brilliant blue eyes, and her face glowed with love. "So fierce and protective. You make me think of one of those Bengal tigers you and my Jake saw on your travels. You are a credit to your title, Lord Weston. A credit to your family—both the English and the Scottish ones."
"Thank you, Two."
She snorted, just as he had expected. Gillian didn't appreciate Nick's recent jest of numbering his sisters by birth order. That, of course, made him use the term more often. Leaning over, he kissed her cheek, then offered her his arm. "Now, as much as I dread the hour to come, I imagine we've skulked out here in the hallway long enough. I know that bruiser of a husband of yours is waiting for you within. May I escort you to the musicale?"
At that point Lady Pratt warmed up her voice by singing a scale. Gillian winced. "Ach, upon reflection, I do believe Jake can wait. I find I am suffering a maternal craving."
Immediately Nick grew concerned, and his gaze dropped to her blossoming waistline. "What do you need, love? Milk? A piece of chicken? An Arbroath smokie?"
"Nae, I canna abide fish this week. Not like last." She jerked her head toward the sitting room and said, "What I need now is peace."
"Then why are we standing here?"
Twenty minutes later they were hidden away in the library. Nick refilled his sister's water glass, then took a seat beside her on a brocade upholstered settee with a glass of his favorite Rowanclere malt. She eyed his whisky and sighed. Having grown up on excellent whisky, Gillian Delaney ordinarily could drink the Russian tsar under the table, but her pregnancy had soured her on the taste of spirits. Because she constantly bemoaned the fact, Nick particularly enjoyed partaking in front of her.
Such meanness, after all, was what brothers were for.
As she grumbled at him, he chuckled into his drink. His thoughts returned to Gillian's comment that he was a credit to his family. He was glad she believed it so. His own father certainly hadn't shared that point of view, and it was because of him that Nick had spent years believing this beloved sister had died. "If he wasn't already dead, I'd shoot him."
Gillian lowered her water glass. "Brooding about your father again, Nick?"
"Aye." The old bastard was winning from the grave. Nick had thought the game was over when word reached him in Calcutta that the Third Marquess of Weston had cocked up his toes. He should have known the blackguard wouldn't let such a minor thing as death defeat him in his vendetta against his son.
The so-called Great Game, the clandestine struggle between Britain and Russia for mastery of Central Asia wasn't the only competition—or even the primary one—for Nick's attention during the years he'd spent in Asia. His personal Great Game had been the battle to stay alive and thereby thwart his father's plans.
It was an ugly truth he'd learned after leaving Fort Worth and traveling to England in response to his father's summons. Nick hadn't been called home and welcomed into the bosom of his family, not by a long shot. He'd been the third marquess's designated sacrificial lamb.
Nick's father had been a political animal, with a special interest in foreign affairs, particularly those of India. Rumor had it that he'd lobbied to be named viceroy before Lord Lytton was named to the job, but his level of dedication had been doubted.
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