Read Online This Rake of Mine by Elizabeth Boyle - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Boyle
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herself—still her beating heart, calm her ruffled sensibilities.
What was it about this rakish man that put her at sixes and sevens?
His kiss, perhaps
, a tiny voice teased from some dark, unbidden place in her heart.
His kiss, indeed!
No, she'd been right back at Miss Emery's. He truly was a dreadful man. How she had ever thought him capable of possessing a thread of honor, she knew not. Why, his state of
déshabillé
suggested a night spent… well, it was best not speculated how Mad Jack Tremont had spent the night.
However, now that she was over the shock of seeing him yet again, she couldn't help but think his rude display would serve well to dispel any more of her ridiculous notions about him.
And with his departure it was easier to think straight. First and foremost, she knew she must let Pippin eat or they would have to endure her complaints until another hot meal could be procured.
Who knew, in this remote and obviously inhospitable section of England, when they would find another willing host with a decent kitchen?
So they ate quickly, Miranda prodding the girls along so they could meet their deadline to be gone from the house in less than an hour.
"I don't think he'd call the magistrate, Miss Porter," Pippin said, glancing over her shoulder at the still laden sideboard.
Felicity looked up from her notebook, probably amending her notes regarding Lord John's eligibility. "I wouldn't be so sure," she said, taking a quick bite of a roll from her sister's plate and washing it down with a hasty drink of tea. "I have it on good authority that men of his age tend to be given to bouts of melancholy."
Men of his age?
Miranda bit her lips together to keep from laughing. But then to these girls, Lord John probably did look ancient.
To Miranda, he looked… oh, bother, she didn't care how he looked. He certainly wasn't the same handsome gadabout he'd been years ago, but time had only added a fine patina to his carved features, giving them a craggy, hewn look, the gray at his temples, an air of mystery… leaving her wondering how he'd spent the last nine years.
Really, Miranda
, she told herself,
that is no mystery
. As if a rake like Mad Jack Tremont could ever change his stripes. Not even a storm as horrendous as the one last night had been able to keep him caged up and away from his sinful pursuits.
Tally, it seemed, didn't share her sister's aversion to Lord John's thirty some years. "I still think he looks like a pirate," she said as she folded her napkin and set it on the table beside her.
Miranda was about to chide her for such a remark, but the girl's words echoed like a church bell, tolling a warning that sent a chill down her spine.
I still think…
Still?
Miranda turned a slow, inquiring look at Tally. Suddenly their arrival at Thistleton Park took on a less innocent and accidental quality. "Still think. Miss Langley? What other time did you meet Lord John?"
Tally's hand paused as it reached for the teapot. The telltale blush rising on her cheeks answered the question better than if the girl had tried to come up with a handy fib to cover her misstep or even a believable fiction to conceal it entirely.
Felicity continued scribbling in her
Chronicles
as if nothing were amiss, but then again, Miranda suspected the girl could brazen her way out of a charge of high treason.
Still, there was Pippin as the final side to this devious triangle, and being the weakest link, she proved Miranda's suspicions quite handily. The girl looked ready to toss up her precious and hard-won breakfast.
Confirmation enough for Miranda.
They'd tricked her. They'd plotted to come to Thistleton Park—all along, she dared imagine—and it hadn't been for the reasons they'd professed.
Oh, Miss Porter, may we go to Thistleton Park to sketch the folly. It sounds terribly romantic. Oh, please may we go?
How innocent their pleas had sounded yestermorn. And how foolish she'd been to believe them!
But why? Why Thistleton
What was it about this rakish man that put her at sixes and sevens?
His kiss, perhaps
, a tiny voice teased from some dark, unbidden place in her heart.
His kiss, indeed!
No, she'd been right back at Miss Emery's. He truly was a dreadful man. How she had ever thought him capable of possessing a thread of honor, she knew not. Why, his state of
déshabillé
suggested a night spent… well, it was best not speculated how Mad Jack Tremont had spent the night.
However, now that she was over the shock of seeing him yet again, she couldn't help but think his rude display would serve well to dispel any more of her ridiculous notions about him.
And with his departure it was easier to think straight. First and foremost, she knew she must let Pippin eat or they would have to endure her complaints until another hot meal could be procured.
Who knew, in this remote and obviously inhospitable section of England, when they would find another willing host with a decent kitchen?
So they ate quickly, Miranda prodding the girls along so they could meet their deadline to be gone from the house in less than an hour.
"I don't think he'd call the magistrate, Miss Porter," Pippin said, glancing over her shoulder at the still laden sideboard.
Felicity looked up from her notebook, probably amending her notes regarding Lord John's eligibility. "I wouldn't be so sure," she said, taking a quick bite of a roll from her sister's plate and washing it down with a hasty drink of tea. "I have it on good authority that men of his age tend to be given to bouts of melancholy."
Men of his age?
Miranda bit her lips together to keep from laughing. But then to these girls, Lord John probably did look ancient.
To Miranda, he looked… oh, bother, she didn't care how he looked. He certainly wasn't the same handsome gadabout he'd been years ago, but time had only added a fine patina to his carved features, giving them a craggy, hewn look, the gray at his temples, an air of mystery… leaving her wondering how he'd spent the last nine years.
Really, Miranda
, she told herself,
that is no mystery
. As if a rake like Mad Jack Tremont could ever change his stripes. Not even a storm as horrendous as the one last night had been able to keep him caged up and away from his sinful pursuits.
Tally, it seemed, didn't share her sister's aversion to Lord John's thirty some years. "I still think he looks like a pirate," she said as she folded her napkin and set it on the table beside her.
Miranda was about to chide her for such a remark, but the girl's words echoed like a church bell, tolling a warning that sent a chill down her spine.
I still think…
Still?
Miranda turned a slow, inquiring look at Tally. Suddenly their arrival at Thistleton Park took on a less innocent and accidental quality. "Still think. Miss Langley? What other time did you meet Lord John?"
Tally's hand paused as it reached for the teapot. The telltale blush rising on her cheeks answered the question better than if the girl had tried to come up with a handy fib to cover her misstep or even a believable fiction to conceal it entirely.
Felicity continued scribbling in her
Chronicles
as if nothing were amiss, but then again, Miranda suspected the girl could brazen her way out of a charge of high treason.
Still, there was Pippin as the final side to this devious triangle, and being the weakest link, she proved Miranda's suspicions quite handily. The girl looked ready to toss up her precious and hard-won breakfast.
Confirmation enough for Miranda.
They'd tricked her. They'd plotted to come to Thistleton Park—all along, she dared imagine—and it hadn't been for the reasons they'd professed.
Oh, Miss Porter, may we go to Thistleton Park to sketch the folly. It sounds terribly romantic. Oh, please may we go?
How innocent their pleas had sounded yestermorn. And how foolish she'd been to believe them!
But why? Why Thistleton
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