Read Online While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) by Shana Galen - Free Book Online
Authors: Shana Galen
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told herself. Don’t panic.
“ Our staff?” Winterbourne asked, regaining her attention. “What exactly is your position here? You have ample free time for a maid, and you’re a little young to be the housekeeper.”
“What?” Maid? Housekeeper? What could he possibly—?
She staggered backward as she realized. She would have fallen straight down the hillside, too, if he hadn’t released the reins of his horse and reached out at the last minute to steady her.
She swatted at his hand. “Don’t touch me.”
He jerked away. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong ?” she screamed. The horse skittered to the side, and Winterbourne grasped his bridle to steady him.
Now she’d scared the poor horse.
“Maybe you’d better sit down a moment,” Winterbourne said when he had the gelding under control again.
Her cheeks heated with embarrassment. He probably thought her half-mad, which, at that point, wasn’t far from the truth. She could kill him. She wanted to kill him.
Not only did he not recall walking away from her on the dance floor—leaving her at the mercy of the ton ’s ridicule—at the Harcourts’ ball, he didn’t even remember her . Mistook her for one of Tanglewilde’s maids !
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” She jabbed a finger at him.
His eyes narrowed in an expression that she’d seen her father make whenever her mother asked him a particularly tricky question. But Winterbourne, arrogant bachelor that he was, seemed to think he had the answer.
“Of course I know who you are.” He paused, then added, “Miss Dashing,” as if to prove his point.
“Oh, really?” She tapped her toe in aggravation. “When did we first meet?”
He gave her a weary expression and spoke as though addressing a child or an imbecile. “We met yesterday afternoon—”
“Wrong!” she stamped her foot. “We met last year at the Harcourts’ ball.”
He frowned. “Lord Harcourt?”
“Yes. And, though I didn’t think it possible for anyone to ever again humiliate me as much as you did on that occasion, I find that I am mistaken. You’ve outdone yourself today.”
A full ten seconds passed in silence. Her chest heaved, and she fought to control her anger as she watched him struggle— struggle —to place her.
Finally, he said, “Were you in Lord Harcourt’s employ at the time?”
“Employ? Employ ?”
He stepped back, obviously aware he’d made a mistake and obviously, maddeningly , still not sure what that mistake had been. Francesca straightened to her full height of five feet two inches.
“I have never been employed by Lord Harcourt, nor anyone else. I am the Honourable Miss Francesca Dashing, eldest daughter of Viscount and Viscountess Brigham. And Tanglewilde”—she gestured at the vast estate sprawled behind her—“is my home. Does that refresh your memory, Lord Winterbourne, or need I go on?”
Seven
T he tone of her voice suggested he’d better not ask her to go on. He didn’t need to. She was beginning to look familiar. Pocket was right. He could picture her father—a distinguished gentleman of fifty or so with brown hair, graying at the temples. But the girl—the girl didn’t look like a viscount’s daughter. Her clothes, though neat, were worn, and her hair blew wild and disheveled, her face pink from exertion. Nothing about her said staid Society miss, except perhaps the cutting look she presently bestowed upon him.
A look that was as sharp as her wits. She’d only been guessing, but when she’d asked if he was a spy, Ethan nearly balked. Now a puzzle piece snapped into place. “Roxbury,” he said.
She started and one pale hand rose to her throat. “W-what did you say?”
“You’re betrothed to Roxbury.” He’d always thought it an odd match, which was probably why he could now recall seeing the couple on one or two occasions. The girl—warm, unsophisticated, and petite—in the shadow of the icy, rigid, self-righteous earl. He
“ Our staff?” Winterbourne asked, regaining her attention. “What exactly is your position here? You have ample free time for a maid, and you’re a little young to be the housekeeper.”
“What?” Maid? Housekeeper? What could he possibly—?
She staggered backward as she realized. She would have fallen straight down the hillside, too, if he hadn’t released the reins of his horse and reached out at the last minute to steady her.
She swatted at his hand. “Don’t touch me.”
He jerked away. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong ?” she screamed. The horse skittered to the side, and Winterbourne grasped his bridle to steady him.
Now she’d scared the poor horse.
“Maybe you’d better sit down a moment,” Winterbourne said when he had the gelding under control again.
Her cheeks heated with embarrassment. He probably thought her half-mad, which, at that point, wasn’t far from the truth. She could kill him. She wanted to kill him.
Not only did he not recall walking away from her on the dance floor—leaving her at the mercy of the ton ’s ridicule—at the Harcourts’ ball, he didn’t even remember her . Mistook her for one of Tanglewilde’s maids !
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” She jabbed a finger at him.
His eyes narrowed in an expression that she’d seen her father make whenever her mother asked him a particularly tricky question. But Winterbourne, arrogant bachelor that he was, seemed to think he had the answer.
“Of course I know who you are.” He paused, then added, “Miss Dashing,” as if to prove his point.
“Oh, really?” She tapped her toe in aggravation. “When did we first meet?”
He gave her a weary expression and spoke as though addressing a child or an imbecile. “We met yesterday afternoon—”
“Wrong!” she stamped her foot. “We met last year at the Harcourts’ ball.”
He frowned. “Lord Harcourt?”
“Yes. And, though I didn’t think it possible for anyone to ever again humiliate me as much as you did on that occasion, I find that I am mistaken. You’ve outdone yourself today.”
A full ten seconds passed in silence. Her chest heaved, and she fought to control her anger as she watched him struggle— struggle —to place her.
Finally, he said, “Were you in Lord Harcourt’s employ at the time?”
“Employ? Employ ?”
He stepped back, obviously aware he’d made a mistake and obviously, maddeningly , still not sure what that mistake had been. Francesca straightened to her full height of five feet two inches.
“I have never been employed by Lord Harcourt, nor anyone else. I am the Honourable Miss Francesca Dashing, eldest daughter of Viscount and Viscountess Brigham. And Tanglewilde”—she gestured at the vast estate sprawled behind her—“is my home. Does that refresh your memory, Lord Winterbourne, or need I go on?”
Seven
T he tone of her voice suggested he’d better not ask her to go on. He didn’t need to. She was beginning to look familiar. Pocket was right. He could picture her father—a distinguished gentleman of fifty or so with brown hair, graying at the temples. But the girl—the girl didn’t look like a viscount’s daughter. Her clothes, though neat, were worn, and her hair blew wild and disheveled, her face pink from exertion. Nothing about her said staid Society miss, except perhaps the cutting look she presently bestowed upon him.
A look that was as sharp as her wits. She’d only been guessing, but when she’d asked if he was a spy, Ethan nearly balked. Now a puzzle piece snapped into place. “Roxbury,” he said.
She started and one pale hand rose to her throat. “W-what did you say?”
“You’re betrothed to Roxbury.” He’d always thought it an odd match, which was probably why he could now recall seeing the couple on one or two occasions. The girl—warm, unsophisticated, and petite—in the shadow of the icy, rigid, self-righteous earl. He
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