Read Online The Magic of You by Johanna Lindsey - Free Book Online
Authors: Johanna Lindsey
Ads: Link
she had to remind her racing heart. No, there were servants in the house. Henri had just let Warren in, so he was around somewhere. Still, right now, they were alone, and she couldn’t believe Jeremy had deserted her like that.
Of course, if it were anyone else, Jeremy wouldn’t have done it. But she and Warren had ties of a sort. Her aunt-by-marriage washis sister. Because of that, Jeremy would see nothing wrong in leaving them without a chaperon. But then, Jeremy didn’t know how she felt about Warren.
His eyes came back to her, unnerving her with their directness. He had the makings of dimples, but you’d never know it—she’d never seen him smile. His nose was straight, the cheekbones lean. His jaw had a stubborn thrust to it. His eyes might be the color of springtime and summer, but in his stern countenance, they appeared cold. His dark gold hair had been an unruly mop of fashionable curls, but now was much too long, though she supposed the extra length helped tame the curls somewhat.
His body ran along lean lines, much like Uncle Tony’s, though you could not call the man skinny by any means. He was taller than Anthony, his shoulders a bit broader, his arms sinewy. His long legs were braced apart—she’d noted all the Anderson brothers stood like that, as if they were balancing on the deck of a ship. Uncle James still stood like that occasionally, too.
Warren was dressed casually in a black coat with gray trousers, no waistcoat, and a plain white shirt without a cravat—something else she noted he had in common with his brothers, that none of them wore a cravat. It was not a tailored look he had, but one quite rugged, and quite suitable to an American sea captain, she supposed.
She needed to say something, but she couldn’t think what, couldn’t think at all with his attention so completely centered on her. The irony was, she’d hoped for just such an opportunity as this. She’d thought of so many things she might say to him, subtle things that would let him know of her tender regard. Not a one came to her now.
“Breakfast,” she suddenly blurted out. “Would you like some?”
“At this hour?”
It had been after five in the morning when he and his brothers had left. She’d heard they were staying at the Albany Hotel over on Piccadilly, which wasn’t far, yet it would still have been closer to six before he finally got to bed. Considering that was just eight hours ago, his derogatory tone was uncalled-for. But, of course, this was Warren, the cynic, the woman-hater, the English-hater, the Malory-hater, and the brother with the worst temper. She’d never get along with him unless she kept that firmly in mind and ignored the occasional insult and chilly manner.
Amy stood up to leave the table. “I suppose you’ve come to see George?”
“Hell, has he got his whole family calling her that now?” he asked.
She ignored the tone this time, though she still said, “I’m sorry. When Uncle James first introduced her as George, she didn’t correct him. It was a while before I found outthat wasn’t her name, and by then…” She shrugged to indicate it was a habit now. “But you don’t call her Georgina either, do you?”
He looked chagrined by that reminder. Or maybe that was how he looked when he was embarrassed. He ought to be embarrassed. “Georgie” was no more feminine than “George” was. But she hadn’t wanted to embarrass him. Drat it, this wasn’t progressing at all well.
To be prudent, she would avoid the name he objected to, and so she said, “My aunt and uncle are still sleeping. They were up earlier when Jack wanted her first feeding, but they went back to sleep when she did.”
“Kindly do not call my niece by that deplorable name.”
This was worse than a surly tone. This was actual anger, and it was quite intimidating, experiencing Warren’s displeasure directly, personally, and in his presence, particularly after her uncle’s remark yesterday about his
Of course, if it were anyone else, Jeremy wouldn’t have done it. But she and Warren had ties of a sort. Her aunt-by-marriage washis sister. Because of that, Jeremy would see nothing wrong in leaving them without a chaperon. But then, Jeremy didn’t know how she felt about Warren.
His eyes came back to her, unnerving her with their directness. He had the makings of dimples, but you’d never know it—she’d never seen him smile. His nose was straight, the cheekbones lean. His jaw had a stubborn thrust to it. His eyes might be the color of springtime and summer, but in his stern countenance, they appeared cold. His dark gold hair had been an unruly mop of fashionable curls, but now was much too long, though she supposed the extra length helped tame the curls somewhat.
His body ran along lean lines, much like Uncle Tony’s, though you could not call the man skinny by any means. He was taller than Anthony, his shoulders a bit broader, his arms sinewy. His long legs were braced apart—she’d noted all the Anderson brothers stood like that, as if they were balancing on the deck of a ship. Uncle James still stood like that occasionally, too.
Warren was dressed casually in a black coat with gray trousers, no waistcoat, and a plain white shirt without a cravat—something else she noted he had in common with his brothers, that none of them wore a cravat. It was not a tailored look he had, but one quite rugged, and quite suitable to an American sea captain, she supposed.
She needed to say something, but she couldn’t think what, couldn’t think at all with his attention so completely centered on her. The irony was, she’d hoped for just such an opportunity as this. She’d thought of so many things she might say to him, subtle things that would let him know of her tender regard. Not a one came to her now.
“Breakfast,” she suddenly blurted out. “Would you like some?”
“At this hour?”
It had been after five in the morning when he and his brothers had left. She’d heard they were staying at the Albany Hotel over on Piccadilly, which wasn’t far, yet it would still have been closer to six before he finally got to bed. Considering that was just eight hours ago, his derogatory tone was uncalled-for. But, of course, this was Warren, the cynic, the woman-hater, the English-hater, the Malory-hater, and the brother with the worst temper. She’d never get along with him unless she kept that firmly in mind and ignored the occasional insult and chilly manner.
Amy stood up to leave the table. “I suppose you’ve come to see George?”
“Hell, has he got his whole family calling her that now?” he asked.
She ignored the tone this time, though she still said, “I’m sorry. When Uncle James first introduced her as George, she didn’t correct him. It was a while before I found outthat wasn’t her name, and by then…” She shrugged to indicate it was a habit now. “But you don’t call her Georgina either, do you?”
He looked chagrined by that reminder. Or maybe that was how he looked when he was embarrassed. He ought to be embarrassed. “Georgie” was no more feminine than “George” was. But she hadn’t wanted to embarrass him. Drat it, this wasn’t progressing at all well.
To be prudent, she would avoid the name he objected to, and so she said, “My aunt and uncle are still sleeping. They were up earlier when Jack wanted her first feeding, but they went back to sleep when she did.”
“Kindly do not call my niece by that deplorable name.”
This was worse than a surly tone. This was actual anger, and it was quite intimidating, experiencing Warren’s displeasure directly, personally, and in his presence, particularly after her uncle’s remark yesterday about his
Similar Books
