Read Online Treasured Vows by Cathy Maxwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cathy Maxwell
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nearby, her expression anxious.
“Miss Abbott, I would like you to meet Squire Blaney of Fowlmere, Cambridgeshire,” Sir Cecil announced, introducing her to the small, wizened man on his right. Squire Blaney’s face, except for a hooked nose, was lost under the moth-eaten bagwig covering his head. He looked as though he’d gotten dressed in the same clothes he’d worn to go to London twenty years before. His velvet knee breeches hung loosely around knobby knees, and his silk stockings were no longer white but a yellowish gray. He smelled of camphor and dogs.
The squire grinned a toothless grin and inclined his head, his eyes devouring her as if she were a sweetmeat. Phadra took a small step backward.
“Blaney runs a string of racing dogs, the best in England,” Sir Cecil said.
The squire looked up at Sir Cecil. “What did you say?” he asked in a loud voice.
Sir Cecil leaned over to place his mouth closer to Squire Blaney’s ear. “I said, you run a string of racing dogs,” he shouted.
“I don’t raise hogs,” the squire practically shouted back, and Phadra realized that this was the man’s normal tone of voice. “I raise dogs .”
“This is Miss Abbott,” Sir Cecil shouted again.
The squire made a courtly bow, almost losing his balance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Babbitt.” He turned to lean close to Sir Cecil and said in a voice that was only slightly softer than his shout, “Actually, I like my women with a little more meat on them. Women are like bitches. With a little fat on them and a good stud, you can breed litter after litter.” He pointed a callused finger past Phadra and at Miranda. “I’d prefer to marry that one.”
Miranda choked with indignation. Sir Cecil hastily interjected that Lady Miranda was already spoken for by Mr. Morgan and physically turned the man so that he could see the size and breadth of the tall banker who stood to the side, a silent witness.
“Oh, well,” Squire Blaney said, and then turned his rheumy eyes to study Phadra a moment. He frowned, as if struggling with disappointment. “I guess I could fatten her up,” he conceded.
Miranda tried to stifle her laughter by covering her mouth with her hand. Unsuccessful, she mumbled an excuse to the guests and practically ran from the room, the sounds of her footsteps and laughter carrying in her wake.
As if to cover for her daughter’s rudeness, Lady Evans came up from behind Sir Cecil and pulled theother man forward. “This is Mr. Jules Woodlac,” she gushed. “And this is his mother, Mrs. Lawrence Woodlac.” She stepped aside so that Phadra could see the huge woman whose presence had been hidden by the three men standing in front of her.
Her bulk took up most of the settee. She didn’t acknowledge Phadra but reached for a small cake on a tray in front of her.
Phadra’s gaze shifted back to the young man. He was passably good-looking, with sweeping dark curls, soulful brown eyes, and an upturned nose, though his dark features and all-black clothing emphasized his pasty complexion.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Woodlac,” Phadra forced herself to say. She held out her hand.
“And you,” he replied as if those two words required a great deal of effort. He took her hand in his long, slender, almost white one and gave hers a limp squeeze.
His hand felt cold and clammy. She pulled hers back.
With a bright smile on her face, Lady Evans said, “Jules’s father owns several mills in Ireland. Someday Jules will inherit all of them.”
The young man’s expression didn’t change, even as he said, “Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a poet.”
“What did he say?” Squire Blaney shouted. “What are you talking about?”
Sir Cecil clapped his hands together and, ignoring the squire, said, “Isn’t that interesting? A poet! Miss Abbott is interested in poetry, aren’t you, my dear?”
“Yes, I’m very fond of good poetry,” Phadra demurred.
“Oh, see, you have
“Miss Abbott, I would like you to meet Squire Blaney of Fowlmere, Cambridgeshire,” Sir Cecil announced, introducing her to the small, wizened man on his right. Squire Blaney’s face, except for a hooked nose, was lost under the moth-eaten bagwig covering his head. He looked as though he’d gotten dressed in the same clothes he’d worn to go to London twenty years before. His velvet knee breeches hung loosely around knobby knees, and his silk stockings were no longer white but a yellowish gray. He smelled of camphor and dogs.
The squire grinned a toothless grin and inclined his head, his eyes devouring her as if she were a sweetmeat. Phadra took a small step backward.
“Blaney runs a string of racing dogs, the best in England,” Sir Cecil said.
The squire looked up at Sir Cecil. “What did you say?” he asked in a loud voice.
Sir Cecil leaned over to place his mouth closer to Squire Blaney’s ear. “I said, you run a string of racing dogs,” he shouted.
“I don’t raise hogs,” the squire practically shouted back, and Phadra realized that this was the man’s normal tone of voice. “I raise dogs .”
“This is Miss Abbott,” Sir Cecil shouted again.
The squire made a courtly bow, almost losing his balance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Babbitt.” He turned to lean close to Sir Cecil and said in a voice that was only slightly softer than his shout, “Actually, I like my women with a little more meat on them. Women are like bitches. With a little fat on them and a good stud, you can breed litter after litter.” He pointed a callused finger past Phadra and at Miranda. “I’d prefer to marry that one.”
Miranda choked with indignation. Sir Cecil hastily interjected that Lady Miranda was already spoken for by Mr. Morgan and physically turned the man so that he could see the size and breadth of the tall banker who stood to the side, a silent witness.
“Oh, well,” Squire Blaney said, and then turned his rheumy eyes to study Phadra a moment. He frowned, as if struggling with disappointment. “I guess I could fatten her up,” he conceded.
Miranda tried to stifle her laughter by covering her mouth with her hand. Unsuccessful, she mumbled an excuse to the guests and practically ran from the room, the sounds of her footsteps and laughter carrying in her wake.
As if to cover for her daughter’s rudeness, Lady Evans came up from behind Sir Cecil and pulled theother man forward. “This is Mr. Jules Woodlac,” she gushed. “And this is his mother, Mrs. Lawrence Woodlac.” She stepped aside so that Phadra could see the huge woman whose presence had been hidden by the three men standing in front of her.
Her bulk took up most of the settee. She didn’t acknowledge Phadra but reached for a small cake on a tray in front of her.
Phadra’s gaze shifted back to the young man. He was passably good-looking, with sweeping dark curls, soulful brown eyes, and an upturned nose, though his dark features and all-black clothing emphasized his pasty complexion.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Woodlac,” Phadra forced herself to say. She held out her hand.
“And you,” he replied as if those two words required a great deal of effort. He took her hand in his long, slender, almost white one and gave hers a limp squeeze.
His hand felt cold and clammy. She pulled hers back.
With a bright smile on her face, Lady Evans said, “Jules’s father owns several mills in Ireland. Someday Jules will inherit all of them.”
The young man’s expression didn’t change, even as he said, “Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a poet.”
“What did he say?” Squire Blaney shouted. “What are you talking about?”
Sir Cecil clapped his hands together and, ignoring the squire, said, “Isn’t that interesting? A poet! Miss Abbott is interested in poetry, aren’t you, my dear?”
“Yes, I’m very fond of good poetry,” Phadra demurred.
“Oh, see, you have
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