Read Online Wicked Wyckerly by Patricia Rice - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Rice
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muddy quagmire, he retrieved his recalcitrant offspring. “Pretend you are a butterfly and flap your wings while I remove these wet shoes.”
He threw her headfirst over his shoulder and let her scream and flap while he pried off her soaked shoes and stockings.
Just keeping them both in clean clothing would eat up what few coins he possessed. He was pathetically grateful to Miss Merry for supplying Penelope’s attire now that he realized Mrs. Jones had neglected his daughter’s wardrobe.
Which meant he had to take the lady’s welfare into consideration as well as his own, dammit all.
“Butterflies don’t roar,” he reminded his daughter as they approached the quiet, pristine farmhouse.
At least he’d managed not to be late for what was apparently the highlight of the day—noon dinner. Not accustomed to using a servants’ entrance, he carried Penelope in the front door and noted the elegant settings on the dining table. Silver and crystal sparkled in the sunlight pouring through the broad windows, and a bouquet of lilacs scented the air.
And he was filthy head to toe from Penny’s kicking feet. “Upstairs and wash, my little duckling. Scrub all over and put on a pretty gown. And petticoat ,” he added sternly.
“Miss Abby doesn’t mind if I’m dirty,” she protested, her rebellious bottom lip emerging.
“She won’t let a dirty duck sit on her nice chairs,” he warned, nodding at the cream damask cushions.
He watched her race upstairs before he dashed back outside again. If they were to dine in state instead of the kitchen, he also needed to change. Keeping up appearances in a rural environment was a challenge. In London, he was normally just contemplating meeting the day at this hour.
Whom was he fooling by playing out here in pastoral splendor? He glanced down the drive. He had enough coin to gamble his way to Cheltenham if he didn’t have to watch over Penny. Perhaps if he left a note explaining that he would return at the quickest possible moment . . . ?
The elegantly set dining table warned that he would not only crush the lady’s expectations but also cement her disgust of him, and for some unfathomable reason, he didn’t want Miss Merry to think less of him than she already did. He would leave after dinner. Perhaps he would even think of a good explanation for his departure.
Penny would bite him before listening to his excuses.
Uncomfortably—and damned inconveniently—aware that he’d just had several responsible thoughts, he had no idea what to make of them.
Abigail was scratching out another line in her plea to the new Marquess of Belden when she heard Mr. Wyckerly and his daughter enter. She almost smiled at the pounding of bare feet racing up the stairs. She had desperately missed that racket.
The letter to the marquess wasn’t going well. How did one explain to a stranger that an unmarried, impoverished, rural female could better raise four young children than a wealthy older couple like the Weatherstons?
She watched out the study window as Mr. Wyckerly strode across the lawn toward the gardener’s cottage. The diversion of setting the formal dining room with her family heirlooms had been more pleasant than her morose thoughts, but it had been vain of her to want to show off to a London gentleman.
Of course, she did not think he was a real gentleman, not the wealthy respectable sort, at least. Remembering his complaint about women expecting men to be heroes, she thought perhaps he might be a trifle sensitive about his lack. Unlike most of society, however, she did not care if he was in trade.
What if . . .?
She shook her head to knock out that wholly ridiculous speculation, but once the notion lodged in her brain, it grew roots. She had so very few choices. . . .
What if Mr. Wyckerly was actually respectable enough for the children’s executor to accept him as their foster father?
Of course, she knew he was no such thing. Men who spoke of devils in bedrooms were far
He threw her headfirst over his shoulder and let her scream and flap while he pried off her soaked shoes and stockings.
Just keeping them both in clean clothing would eat up what few coins he possessed. He was pathetically grateful to Miss Merry for supplying Penelope’s attire now that he realized Mrs. Jones had neglected his daughter’s wardrobe.
Which meant he had to take the lady’s welfare into consideration as well as his own, dammit all.
“Butterflies don’t roar,” he reminded his daughter as they approached the quiet, pristine farmhouse.
At least he’d managed not to be late for what was apparently the highlight of the day—noon dinner. Not accustomed to using a servants’ entrance, he carried Penelope in the front door and noted the elegant settings on the dining table. Silver and crystal sparkled in the sunlight pouring through the broad windows, and a bouquet of lilacs scented the air.
And he was filthy head to toe from Penny’s kicking feet. “Upstairs and wash, my little duckling. Scrub all over and put on a pretty gown. And petticoat ,” he added sternly.
“Miss Abby doesn’t mind if I’m dirty,” she protested, her rebellious bottom lip emerging.
“She won’t let a dirty duck sit on her nice chairs,” he warned, nodding at the cream damask cushions.
He watched her race upstairs before he dashed back outside again. If they were to dine in state instead of the kitchen, he also needed to change. Keeping up appearances in a rural environment was a challenge. In London, he was normally just contemplating meeting the day at this hour.
Whom was he fooling by playing out here in pastoral splendor? He glanced down the drive. He had enough coin to gamble his way to Cheltenham if he didn’t have to watch over Penny. Perhaps if he left a note explaining that he would return at the quickest possible moment . . . ?
The elegantly set dining table warned that he would not only crush the lady’s expectations but also cement her disgust of him, and for some unfathomable reason, he didn’t want Miss Merry to think less of him than she already did. He would leave after dinner. Perhaps he would even think of a good explanation for his departure.
Penny would bite him before listening to his excuses.
Uncomfortably—and damned inconveniently—aware that he’d just had several responsible thoughts, he had no idea what to make of them.
Abigail was scratching out another line in her plea to the new Marquess of Belden when she heard Mr. Wyckerly and his daughter enter. She almost smiled at the pounding of bare feet racing up the stairs. She had desperately missed that racket.
The letter to the marquess wasn’t going well. How did one explain to a stranger that an unmarried, impoverished, rural female could better raise four young children than a wealthy older couple like the Weatherstons?
She watched out the study window as Mr. Wyckerly strode across the lawn toward the gardener’s cottage. The diversion of setting the formal dining room with her family heirlooms had been more pleasant than her morose thoughts, but it had been vain of her to want to show off to a London gentleman.
Of course, she did not think he was a real gentleman, not the wealthy respectable sort, at least. Remembering his complaint about women expecting men to be heroes, she thought perhaps he might be a trifle sensitive about his lack. Unlike most of society, however, she did not care if he was in trade.
What if . . .?
She shook her head to knock out that wholly ridiculous speculation, but once the notion lodged in her brain, it grew roots. She had so very few choices. . . .
What if Mr. Wyckerly was actually respectable enough for the children’s executor to accept him as their foster father?
Of course, she knew he was no such thing. Men who spoke of devils in bedrooms were far
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