Read Online The Viscount's Rose (The Farthingale Series Book 5) by Meara Platt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Meara Platt
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familiar voice from behind them. Lord Emory, of course. Did his timing always have to be so inconvenient? Her skin was still so flushed that she resembled a fruit—namely, said cherry—instead of the delicate, alabaster-skinned debutante she was supposed to be.
She didn’t want to look at him, but he came around to stand in front of them, planting his large frame in front of her so that she couldn’t ignore him. She felt the heat of his gaze on her and heard him clear his throat as though hinting that she ought to acknowledge his presence. Crumpets. She couldn’t snub him. “Good evening, Lord Em—”
The words caught in her throat the moment she glanced up. Standing beside him, indeed clinging to his arm, was the beautiful Countess Deschanel.
Crumpets again!
The woman was more beautiful than Rose had imagined. She radiated beauty in even the harshest angles of fading evening light. The pink, violet, and orange rays of sunlight seemed to shimmer around her as the sun set, each hue bringing out the pink blush of her porcelain cheeks and the violet black of her glistening dark hair. Even the orange tones, a difficult color for any woman to sport whether young or old, seemed to give her skin a magical golden glow.
For that reason alone Rose wished to dislike her.
Well, not really.
But she understood Nicola’s distress. How could Lord Emory not be enraptured by this woman? In comparison, she was entirely lacking. Her honey-gold hair never behaved, and she was always fighting back a loose curl springing up here or a stray curl pointing up there. Even when freshly washed and left down, her hair never draped like silk over her shoulders but cascaded in a wild tumble down her back.
Rose stifled a groan. While Countess Deschanel’s eyes were a perfect dove gray, her own eyes were an imperfect blue muddled with flecks of gray and violet as though they didn’t know what they ought to be, so they were a mix of everything. As for her skin? It was still flushed that hideous cherry red.
Nicola’s brother introduced her to his goddess. “A pleasure,” Rose said, offering a short curtsy and smiling warmly in response, because it wasn’t the woman’s fault that she was perfect in every way and that men—even intelligent ones—fell in love with her at first sight.
The countess smiled icily in response. “The music is starting soon, Chatham. Your sister and her odd little friend are obviously capable of looking after themselves. No need to worry about them.”
Odd friend? Rose definitely felt the air turn glacial in this woman’s presence. Indeed, Lord Emory’s goddess appeared quite adept at sucking all warmth from a room and even from the expansive outdoors in which they stood. Quite a feat, for the evening air was slightly damp and still held the heat of the long summer’s day.
Surprisingly, Nicola’s brother held back when she attempted to draw him away. “Miss Farthingale, may I help you to a chair? You appear to be struggling on your feet.”
Obviously, he’d mistaken her embarrassment in imagining him naked for difficulty in walking about with a sprained ankle. Only her ankle had healed just fine and although she carried the cane, she wasn’t limping or feeling particularly uncomfortable in the area of her foot. No, the discomfort lay squarely in her heart. “You needn’t concern yourself with me, my lord. I’ll waddle over to the concert seats on my own.”
The countess sniffed to mark her displeasure.
Nicola’s brother shot her a grin and masked his chuckle by bringing one of his fisted hands to his mouth and coughing. “Stay within sight of Lord and Lady Darnley or the Farthingales. I don’t wish to be worrying about the pair of you.” He glanced at his goddess and his smile turned wicked. “I have better things to occupy my time this evening.”
He strolled away with the countess still clinging to his arm, never once looking back. Rose stared in his direction even after he’d
She didn’t want to look at him, but he came around to stand in front of them, planting his large frame in front of her so that she couldn’t ignore him. She felt the heat of his gaze on her and heard him clear his throat as though hinting that she ought to acknowledge his presence. Crumpets. She couldn’t snub him. “Good evening, Lord Em—”
The words caught in her throat the moment she glanced up. Standing beside him, indeed clinging to his arm, was the beautiful Countess Deschanel.
Crumpets again!
The woman was more beautiful than Rose had imagined. She radiated beauty in even the harshest angles of fading evening light. The pink, violet, and orange rays of sunlight seemed to shimmer around her as the sun set, each hue bringing out the pink blush of her porcelain cheeks and the violet black of her glistening dark hair. Even the orange tones, a difficult color for any woman to sport whether young or old, seemed to give her skin a magical golden glow.
For that reason alone Rose wished to dislike her.
Well, not really.
But she understood Nicola’s distress. How could Lord Emory not be enraptured by this woman? In comparison, she was entirely lacking. Her honey-gold hair never behaved, and she was always fighting back a loose curl springing up here or a stray curl pointing up there. Even when freshly washed and left down, her hair never draped like silk over her shoulders but cascaded in a wild tumble down her back.
Rose stifled a groan. While Countess Deschanel’s eyes were a perfect dove gray, her own eyes were an imperfect blue muddled with flecks of gray and violet as though they didn’t know what they ought to be, so they were a mix of everything. As for her skin? It was still flushed that hideous cherry red.
Nicola’s brother introduced her to his goddess. “A pleasure,” Rose said, offering a short curtsy and smiling warmly in response, because it wasn’t the woman’s fault that she was perfect in every way and that men—even intelligent ones—fell in love with her at first sight.
The countess smiled icily in response. “The music is starting soon, Chatham. Your sister and her odd little friend are obviously capable of looking after themselves. No need to worry about them.”
Odd friend? Rose definitely felt the air turn glacial in this woman’s presence. Indeed, Lord Emory’s goddess appeared quite adept at sucking all warmth from a room and even from the expansive outdoors in which they stood. Quite a feat, for the evening air was slightly damp and still held the heat of the long summer’s day.
Surprisingly, Nicola’s brother held back when she attempted to draw him away. “Miss Farthingale, may I help you to a chair? You appear to be struggling on your feet.”
Obviously, he’d mistaken her embarrassment in imagining him naked for difficulty in walking about with a sprained ankle. Only her ankle had healed just fine and although she carried the cane, she wasn’t limping or feeling particularly uncomfortable in the area of her foot. No, the discomfort lay squarely in her heart. “You needn’t concern yourself with me, my lord. I’ll waddle over to the concert seats on my own.”
The countess sniffed to mark her displeasure.
Nicola’s brother shot her a grin and masked his chuckle by bringing one of his fisted hands to his mouth and coughing. “Stay within sight of Lord and Lady Darnley or the Farthingales. I don’t wish to be worrying about the pair of you.” He glanced at his goddess and his smile turned wicked. “I have better things to occupy my time this evening.”
He strolled away with the countess still clinging to his arm, never once looking back. Rose stared in his direction even after he’d
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