Read Online The Heart of a Scoundrel by Christi Caldwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christi Caldwell
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rescued Honoria’s shawl,” she said, more to herself.
Her mother’s lips pulled up in the corner. Phoebe froze a moment wondering how a woman who lived an existence with a cad like the Viscount Waters as her husband should ever manage such a beautiful and alive smile. “It is never a chance meeting. There is no such thing,” she said with a widening smile.
How was the other woman able to smile? How could she do it so freely and sincerely and beautifully when she remained trapped in marriage to a vile reprobate? And more, how could she believe in the dream of love and romance for others, when life had so cruelly stolen the hope of those emotions from her?
Suddenly uncomfortable with thoughts about her mother’s marriage and Phoebe’s heart, she swallowed back the question that would only cause the other woman pain. A knock sounded at the door and she glanced up. From the entrance of the room, the butler cleared his throat. “Lady Gillian and Miss Honoria.” He sketched a respectful bow and backed out of the room.
Phoebe scrambled to her feet, never more glad for the sudden appearance of two people. These two people, particularly. The young ladies filed into the parlor like a pair of geese and dipped matching curtsies. “My lady,” they said in unison.
“Good morning, Gillian. Honoria.” Her mother greeted them with a smile and then a twinkle lit her eyes. No doubt she knew her daughter well enough to detect the relief at the young ladies’ interruption. With a quick kiss on Phoebe’s cheek, the older woman sailed from the room in a flurry of skirts.
Ever garrulous Gillian broke the silence. “Shall we be going? Honoria is not permitted to remain out long. She has—oomph.” Gillian glared at Honoria. “Did you kick me?”
“I daresay that should be fairly obvious,” Honoria muttered.
Phoebe looked questioningly between her friends.
When it became clear Honoria intended to say nothing else, Gillian explained. “It is Lord Thistlewait.” The gentleman in question had made no secret of his interest in Honoria. And Honoria had made no secret of her disinterest in that gentleman. Gillian skipped over and claimed a spot on the gold upholstered sofa. “I’ve heard horrid things of Lord Thistlewait,” she said on a conspiratorial whisper. “They say he is a stodgy bore.” Which in no way explained a priggish gentleman’s attention on one of the most notorious, unwed young ladies.
Honoria patted her brown curls. “I’ve not heard any truly ill thoughts on the gentleman.” She stifled a yawn with her fingers. “He is a bore.” She wrinkled her nose, ruining her whole affected attempt at maturity. “Which I would suppose constitutes an ill thought,” she muttered under her breath.
What would Phoebe’s two friends say about her unwitting fascination with the Marquess of Rutland? Heat spiraled through her as she recalled his kiss. There was nothing staid or stodgy about the marquess. And with the desire he stirred, staid and stodgy were a good deal safer.
“Why are you looking like that?” Gillian cocked her head and then looked to Honoria. “Why is she looking like that?”
Phoebe’s cheeks warmed. “Shall we go before Honoria is forced to return and be courted by Lord Thistlewait?”
The lady in mention narrowed her eyes and then opened her mouth as though she wished to say something on Phoebe’s deliberate evasiveness. But Phoebe implored her with her eyes and Honoria gave an imperceptible nod.
A short carriage ride later, with no further talk of Lord Thistlewait or questions about Phoebe’s peculiar reaction, the ladies and a rightfully wary maid made their way not shopping but through the broad columns of Egyptian Hall.
Phoebe glanced up at the sweeping ceiling of the darkened Egyptian-style space. Hieroglyphics marked the walls of the famed place constructed by Mr. Bullock. She paused beside the menagerie of stuffed creatures at the central portion of the hall and, reaching
Her mother’s lips pulled up in the corner. Phoebe froze a moment wondering how a woman who lived an existence with a cad like the Viscount Waters as her husband should ever manage such a beautiful and alive smile. “It is never a chance meeting. There is no such thing,” she said with a widening smile.
How was the other woman able to smile? How could she do it so freely and sincerely and beautifully when she remained trapped in marriage to a vile reprobate? And more, how could she believe in the dream of love and romance for others, when life had so cruelly stolen the hope of those emotions from her?
Suddenly uncomfortable with thoughts about her mother’s marriage and Phoebe’s heart, she swallowed back the question that would only cause the other woman pain. A knock sounded at the door and she glanced up. From the entrance of the room, the butler cleared his throat. “Lady Gillian and Miss Honoria.” He sketched a respectful bow and backed out of the room.
Phoebe scrambled to her feet, never more glad for the sudden appearance of two people. These two people, particularly. The young ladies filed into the parlor like a pair of geese and dipped matching curtsies. “My lady,” they said in unison.
“Good morning, Gillian. Honoria.” Her mother greeted them with a smile and then a twinkle lit her eyes. No doubt she knew her daughter well enough to detect the relief at the young ladies’ interruption. With a quick kiss on Phoebe’s cheek, the older woman sailed from the room in a flurry of skirts.
Ever garrulous Gillian broke the silence. “Shall we be going? Honoria is not permitted to remain out long. She has—oomph.” Gillian glared at Honoria. “Did you kick me?”
“I daresay that should be fairly obvious,” Honoria muttered.
Phoebe looked questioningly between her friends.
When it became clear Honoria intended to say nothing else, Gillian explained. “It is Lord Thistlewait.” The gentleman in question had made no secret of his interest in Honoria. And Honoria had made no secret of her disinterest in that gentleman. Gillian skipped over and claimed a spot on the gold upholstered sofa. “I’ve heard horrid things of Lord Thistlewait,” she said on a conspiratorial whisper. “They say he is a stodgy bore.” Which in no way explained a priggish gentleman’s attention on one of the most notorious, unwed young ladies.
Honoria patted her brown curls. “I’ve not heard any truly ill thoughts on the gentleman.” She stifled a yawn with her fingers. “He is a bore.” She wrinkled her nose, ruining her whole affected attempt at maturity. “Which I would suppose constitutes an ill thought,” she muttered under her breath.
What would Phoebe’s two friends say about her unwitting fascination with the Marquess of Rutland? Heat spiraled through her as she recalled his kiss. There was nothing staid or stodgy about the marquess. And with the desire he stirred, staid and stodgy were a good deal safer.
“Why are you looking like that?” Gillian cocked her head and then looked to Honoria. “Why is she looking like that?”
Phoebe’s cheeks warmed. “Shall we go before Honoria is forced to return and be courted by Lord Thistlewait?”
The lady in mention narrowed her eyes and then opened her mouth as though she wished to say something on Phoebe’s deliberate evasiveness. But Phoebe implored her with her eyes and Honoria gave an imperceptible nod.
A short carriage ride later, with no further talk of Lord Thistlewait or questions about Phoebe’s peculiar reaction, the ladies and a rightfully wary maid made their way not shopping but through the broad columns of Egyptian Hall.
Phoebe glanced up at the sweeping ceiling of the darkened Egyptian-style space. Hieroglyphics marked the walls of the famed place constructed by Mr. Bullock. She paused beside the menagerie of stuffed creatures at the central portion of the hall and, reaching
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