Read Online The Luck of the Devil by Bárbara Metzger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bárbara Metzger
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hands—Carey wasn't a bloodthirsty barbarian, despite his sister's caterwauling—and swatted the horse on the rump.
"And as for you, miss," Carey started, turning to his wayward sister, who was halfway through the door the grinning footman held for her. Suzannah brandished the umbrella stand, shrieking about evil, black-hearted guardians, bullies boiling in oil, and True Love.
Carey wiped his hands on his trousers and strode off for the stables. There, that was a fine day's work. Three hysterical females and one quaking halfling. He felt as if he'd just taken on the whole French army.
Chapter Eight
« ^ »
A man cannot outride his troubles. They follow along, echoing with the rhythm of the horse's hooves. Suzannah was a hoyden and Emonda was ruined.
Suzannah would go to a proper school in Lyme Regis, if Carey had to get her there kicking and screaming about kidnappers and star-crossed lovers, which he fully expected. And Emonda was ruined.
Captain Delverson was a master at weapons and wars and even women—but not the kind of woman one could neither banter with nor bed. The chit was too old for school, too young to live alone, too innocent to ship to the Abbey as St. Dillon's problem. Besides, she was right: She was even less Harry's relative than Carey's, and so far her name was blackened only in Dorset. Association with St. Dillon could make her a byword in at least three other counties.
His horse was in a lather and Carey was miles away from home. He had to rejoin his unit, he knew no respectable females, and Emonda was still ruined. He looked around to get his bearings and realized he was looking up to the prospect of High Clyme, seat of his father's good friend and chess partner, Donald, Earl Clyme. Lord Clyme could not be a help now, since the gentleman was at least sixty and had never been wed. What could he know of women? Then again, the earl hardly ever permitted women in his house, which indicated to Carey that Lord Clyme knew all about the creatures. He rode toward the house, knowing at least Lord Clyme's hospitality would save him an hour's worth of wailing and whining.
"It's a bad business, my boy," Lord Clyme told him after greetings and condolences when they were seated comfortably in the elderly nobleman's study. Lord Clyme's leg was propped up on pillows and a globe of brandy was in his hand, two not altogether unrelated facts. Carey stared into the fire and sipped from his glass as the other man went on. "You know what they say, a woman without reputation is like a goblet with a hole in it. Pretty, but no one is going to be fool enough to try to drink out of it."
Carey nodded gravely. He knew how cruel society could be. He also knew the only solution, although he had refused to say the words even in his mind, like old superstitions about not naming the Devil, lest you call him forth. The captain loosened his collar. The heat from the fire was making him uncomfortable, Carey told himself, not the feeling of a noose inexorably tightening around his neck as his lordship uttered the fateful phrase: "She'll have to be married."
Carey took a gulp of the brandy. The liquor managed to get past the lump in his throat and he was even able to speak rationally. "Yes, then she would be able to bring Suzannah out when the time comes, and be a respectable chaperone over school vacations and such until then."
"Aye, nothing quiets clacking tongues like a wedding."
Still reigned, except for the crackling of the fire. At last Carey broke the silence. "I should make Harry take her, for creating the scandal-brew, but they would both be wretched. It would be like yoking a ewe lamb to an oxen. Harry would have more tolerance for an untrained hound than for such a watering pot, and Emonda is even more afraid of St. Dillon than she is of me. There's always Joss, but he's too young to even think of leg-shackles. Besides, he might mistake her for one of his fillies and pat her on the rump. She'd have the vapors for
"And as for you, miss," Carey started, turning to his wayward sister, who was halfway through the door the grinning footman held for her. Suzannah brandished the umbrella stand, shrieking about evil, black-hearted guardians, bullies boiling in oil, and True Love.
Carey wiped his hands on his trousers and strode off for the stables. There, that was a fine day's work. Three hysterical females and one quaking halfling. He felt as if he'd just taken on the whole French army.
Chapter Eight
« ^ »
A man cannot outride his troubles. They follow along, echoing with the rhythm of the horse's hooves. Suzannah was a hoyden and Emonda was ruined.
Suzannah would go to a proper school in Lyme Regis, if Carey had to get her there kicking and screaming about kidnappers and star-crossed lovers, which he fully expected. And Emonda was ruined.
Captain Delverson was a master at weapons and wars and even women—but not the kind of woman one could neither banter with nor bed. The chit was too old for school, too young to live alone, too innocent to ship to the Abbey as St. Dillon's problem. Besides, she was right: She was even less Harry's relative than Carey's, and so far her name was blackened only in Dorset. Association with St. Dillon could make her a byword in at least three other counties.
His horse was in a lather and Carey was miles away from home. He had to rejoin his unit, he knew no respectable females, and Emonda was still ruined. He looked around to get his bearings and realized he was looking up to the prospect of High Clyme, seat of his father's good friend and chess partner, Donald, Earl Clyme. Lord Clyme could not be a help now, since the gentleman was at least sixty and had never been wed. What could he know of women? Then again, the earl hardly ever permitted women in his house, which indicated to Carey that Lord Clyme knew all about the creatures. He rode toward the house, knowing at least Lord Clyme's hospitality would save him an hour's worth of wailing and whining.
"It's a bad business, my boy," Lord Clyme told him after greetings and condolences when they were seated comfortably in the elderly nobleman's study. Lord Clyme's leg was propped up on pillows and a globe of brandy was in his hand, two not altogether unrelated facts. Carey stared into the fire and sipped from his glass as the other man went on. "You know what they say, a woman without reputation is like a goblet with a hole in it. Pretty, but no one is going to be fool enough to try to drink out of it."
Carey nodded gravely. He knew how cruel society could be. He also knew the only solution, although he had refused to say the words even in his mind, like old superstitions about not naming the Devil, lest you call him forth. The captain loosened his collar. The heat from the fire was making him uncomfortable, Carey told himself, not the feeling of a noose inexorably tightening around his neck as his lordship uttered the fateful phrase: "She'll have to be married."
Carey took a gulp of the brandy. The liquor managed to get past the lump in his throat and he was even able to speak rationally. "Yes, then she would be able to bring Suzannah out when the time comes, and be a respectable chaperone over school vacations and such until then."
"Aye, nothing quiets clacking tongues like a wedding."
Still reigned, except for the crackling of the fire. At last Carey broke the silence. "I should make Harry take her, for creating the scandal-brew, but they would both be wretched. It would be like yoking a ewe lamb to an oxen. Harry would have more tolerance for an untrained hound than for such a watering pot, and Emonda is even more afraid of St. Dillon than she is of me. There's always Joss, but he's too young to even think of leg-shackles. Besides, he might mistake her for one of his fillies and pat her on the rump. She'd have the vapors for
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