Read Online The Reckless One by Connie Brockway - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Connie Brockway
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Carr asked. “To whom?”
“Why, to me.” A light sheen sprouted on Tunbridge’s high forehead.
Deuce take it, the man wanted something. Carr was not in the mood. “Later, Tunbridge. My guests—”
“Your guests will wait, Lord Carr,” Tunbridge said, his voice hardening. “Please. I have been of great service to you these past few years, as well you know, and now I would ask but a few minutes of your time.”
“You’re making demands, Tunbridge?” Carr asked mildly. “How very annoying for me and how very dangerous for you.”
Tunbridge flushed but raised his chin. He was going to be plaguesomely persistent.
“Very well,” Carr capitulated, taking Tunbridge’s arm and drawing him through the open doors that led out into the courtyard.
Outside, the sun had relinquished the sky and the wind had died down. A thin fog drifted up the low, flinty apron that sloped away from the castle. The noise from the party within melded with the elemental rumble of the sea.
“Now, what is it, Tunbridge?” Carr faced the tall man.
“Your daughter, sir.”
“What of Fia?” Carr asked with awakening interest. Of late his gorgeous young daughter was an unpredictable creature, one minute an unruly jade and hoydenish flirt, the next, a Sphinx, inscrutable and cold.
Her attitude toward him had certainly changed in the last year. Once she’d been his familiar, seeking his company and amusing him with her sardonic wit. But now she’d turned her gifts against him, and honed them, too.
What had Fia done now? Publicly denigrated the fool’s manhood?
“Before you choke on whatever it is you have to say, Tunbridge, I feel obliged to tell you that I have no intention of fighting any duels over anything Fia may have said or done,” Carr said. He held up his hand, silencing Tunbridge when he would have interrupted.
“No. Listen. If you have a quarrel with the girl that only blood-letting can satisfy, I suggest you find one of her swains to champion her. I shan’t.”
“No! Of course … why … I mean … no! No!” Tunbridge grew bright red.
For reportedly being one of London’s most celebrated duelists, Carr thought impatiently, Tunbridge certainly lacked dash. “Out with it, man! What the devil are you trying to say?”
“I … I don’t want to
kill
Miss Fia. I wish to
marry
her!”
Carr stared at him a full minute before throwing back his head and laughing. He laughed until his side hurt and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He laughed until he could laugh no more and when he’d finally finished, he sniffed and withdrew a lace kerchief from his wrist and dabbed at his eyes and nose, occasionally hiccuping up another little chortle.
“Oh, thank you! I had need of a divertissement. I vow, Tunbridge, I would never have taken you for a wit.”
Only then did he see that Tunbridge was not laughing. The color had leached from his face, leaving bloodless lips forming a thin line. Tunbridge had been serious.
When Carr realized this, he also remembered anew that Tunbridge—whose dueling career had been severely curtailed when Carr’s son Ash impaled Tunbridge’s hand on a stiletto—was still accredited to be more than passing proficient with a rapier. Still, Carr really wasn’t in the mood.
“I will give you the benefit of the doubt, sir,” Tunbridge ground out, “and assume that you misunderstood my intent, that being to take Miss Fia to wife.”
“No, I didn’t misunderstand you,” Carr said, tucking his kerchief back in his sleeve. “And the answer is no.”
“Why not?” Tunbridge demanded. “My lineage is impeccable, I am a baron, but most tellingly I am in the royal family’s confidence.
“You, sir, ought to appreciate the extent of my influence on His Majesty as I have used that influence this past year and more in persuading him to revoke his decree that exiled you to Scotland. I have almost convinced His Majesty that your habit of losing rich young wives is, indeed, an
“Why, to me.” A light sheen sprouted on Tunbridge’s high forehead.
Deuce take it, the man wanted something. Carr was not in the mood. “Later, Tunbridge. My guests—”
“Your guests will wait, Lord Carr,” Tunbridge said, his voice hardening. “Please. I have been of great service to you these past few years, as well you know, and now I would ask but a few minutes of your time.”
“You’re making demands, Tunbridge?” Carr asked mildly. “How very annoying for me and how very dangerous for you.”
Tunbridge flushed but raised his chin. He was going to be plaguesomely persistent.
“Very well,” Carr capitulated, taking Tunbridge’s arm and drawing him through the open doors that led out into the courtyard.
Outside, the sun had relinquished the sky and the wind had died down. A thin fog drifted up the low, flinty apron that sloped away from the castle. The noise from the party within melded with the elemental rumble of the sea.
“Now, what is it, Tunbridge?” Carr faced the tall man.
“Your daughter, sir.”
“What of Fia?” Carr asked with awakening interest. Of late his gorgeous young daughter was an unpredictable creature, one minute an unruly jade and hoydenish flirt, the next, a Sphinx, inscrutable and cold.
Her attitude toward him had certainly changed in the last year. Once she’d been his familiar, seeking his company and amusing him with her sardonic wit. But now she’d turned her gifts against him, and honed them, too.
What had Fia done now? Publicly denigrated the fool’s manhood?
“Before you choke on whatever it is you have to say, Tunbridge, I feel obliged to tell you that I have no intention of fighting any duels over anything Fia may have said or done,” Carr said. He held up his hand, silencing Tunbridge when he would have interrupted.
“No. Listen. If you have a quarrel with the girl that only blood-letting can satisfy, I suggest you find one of her swains to champion her. I shan’t.”
“No! Of course … why … I mean … no! No!” Tunbridge grew bright red.
For reportedly being one of London’s most celebrated duelists, Carr thought impatiently, Tunbridge certainly lacked dash. “Out with it, man! What the devil are you trying to say?”
“I … I don’t want to
kill
Miss Fia. I wish to
marry
her!”
Carr stared at him a full minute before throwing back his head and laughing. He laughed until his side hurt and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He laughed until he could laugh no more and when he’d finally finished, he sniffed and withdrew a lace kerchief from his wrist and dabbed at his eyes and nose, occasionally hiccuping up another little chortle.
“Oh, thank you! I had need of a divertissement. I vow, Tunbridge, I would never have taken you for a wit.”
Only then did he see that Tunbridge was not laughing. The color had leached from his face, leaving bloodless lips forming a thin line. Tunbridge had been serious.
When Carr realized this, he also remembered anew that Tunbridge—whose dueling career had been severely curtailed when Carr’s son Ash impaled Tunbridge’s hand on a stiletto—was still accredited to be more than passing proficient with a rapier. Still, Carr really wasn’t in the mood.
“I will give you the benefit of the doubt, sir,” Tunbridge ground out, “and assume that you misunderstood my intent, that being to take Miss Fia to wife.”
“No, I didn’t misunderstand you,” Carr said, tucking his kerchief back in his sleeve. “And the answer is no.”
“Why not?” Tunbridge demanded. “My lineage is impeccable, I am a baron, but most tellingly I am in the royal family’s confidence.
“You, sir, ought to appreciate the extent of my influence on His Majesty as I have used that influence this past year and more in persuading him to revoke his decree that exiled you to Scotland. I have almost convinced His Majesty that your habit of losing rich young wives is, indeed, an
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