Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(116)

Joel had rejoiced, not just because he had found it difficult to work with her, but because he cared for the children—all of them. He had been greatly relieved too, because Miss Nunce had succeeded Anna Snow, who had left a few months ago, and who had been everything she was not. Anna had brought sunshine to the schoolroom.

It was Anna whom he loved, though he tried doggedly to use the past tense whenever he considered his feelings for her. She was a married lady now. She was the Duchess of Netherby.





    Read on for an excerpt from the third book in Mary Balogh’s Westcott series,

    SOMEONE TO WED,

    now available from Jove.





One





“The Earl of Riverdale,” the butler announced after opening wide the double doors of the drawing room as though to admit a regiment and then standing to one side so that the gentleman named could stride past him.

The announcement was not strictly necessary. Wren had heard the arrival of his vehicle, and guessed it was a curricle rather than a traveling carriage, although she had not got to her feet to look. And he was almost exactly on time. She liked that. The two gentlemen who had come before him had been late, one by all of half an hour. Those two had been sent on their way as soon as was decently possible, though not only because of their tardiness. Mr. Sweeney, who had come a week ago, had bad teeth and a way of stretching his mouth to expose them at disconcertingly frequent intervals even when he was not actually smiling. Mr. Richman, who had come four days ago, had had no discernible personality, a fact that had been quite as disconcerting as Mr. Sweeney’s teeth. Now here came the third.

He strode forward a few paces before coming to an abrupt halt as the butler closed the doors behind him. He looked about the room with apparent surprise at the discovery that it was occupied only by two women, one of whom—Maude, Wren’s maid—was seated off in a corner, her head bent over some needlework, in the role of chaperon. His eyes came to rest upon Wren and he bowed.

“Miss Heyden?” It was a question.

Her first reaction after her initial approval of his punctuality was acute dismay. One glance told her he was not at all what she wanted.

He was tall, well formed, immaculately, elegantly tailored, dark haired, and impossibly handsome. And young—in his late twenties or early thirties, at a guess. If she were to dream up the perfect hero for the perfect romantic fairy tale, she could not do better than the very real man standing halfway across the room, waiting for her to confirm that she was indeed the lady who had invited him to take tea at Withington House.

But this was no fairy tale, and the sheer perfection of him alarmed her and caused her to lean back farther in her chair and deeper into the shade provided by the curtains drawn across the window on her side of the fireplace. She had not wanted a handsome man or even a particularly young man. She had hoped for someone older, more ordinary, perhaps balding or acquiring a bit of a paunch, pleasant-looking but basically . . . well, ordinary. With decent teeth and at least something of a personality. But she could hardly deny her identity and dismiss him without further ado.

“Yes,” she said. “How do you do, Lord Riverdale? Do have a seat.” She gestured to the chair across the hearth from her own. She knew something of social manners and ought, of course, to have risen to greet him, but she had good reason to keep to the shadows, at least for now.

He eyed the chair as he approached it and sat with obvious reluctance. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “I appear to be early. Punctuality is one of my besetting sins, I am afraid. I always make the mistake of assuming that when I am invited somewhere for half past two, I am expected to arrive at half past two. I hope some of your other guests will be here soon, including a few ladies.”

She was further alarmed when he smiled. If it was possible to look more handsome than handsome, he was looking it. He had perfect teeth, and his eyes crinkled attractively at the corners when he smiled. And his eyes were very blue. Oh, this was wretched. Who was number four on her list?

“Punctuality is a virtue as far as I am concerned, Lord Riverdale,” she said. “I am a businesswoman, as perhaps you are aware. To run a successful business, one must respect other people’s time as well as one’s own. You are on time. You see?” She swept one hand toward the clock ticking on the mantel. “It is twenty-five minutes to three. And I am not expecting any other guests.”

His smile disappeared and he glanced at Maude before looking back at Wren. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps you had not realized, Miss Heyden, that neither my mother nor my sister came into the country with me. Or perhaps you did not realize I have no wife to accompany me. I beg your pardon. I have no wish to cause you any embarrassment or to compromise you in any way.” His hands closed about the arms of his chair in a signal that he was about to rise.

“But my invitation was addressed to you alone,” she said. “I am no young girl to need to be hedged about with relatives to protect me from the dangerous company of single gentlemen. And I do have Maude for propriety’s sake. We are neighbors of sorts, Lord Riverdale, though more than eight miles separate Withington House from Brambledean Court and I am not always here and you are not always there. Nevertheless, now that I am owner of Withington and have completed my year of mourning for my aunt and uncle, I have taken it upon myself to become acquainted with some of my neighbors. I entertained Mr. Sweeney here last week and Mr. Richman a few days after. Do you know them?”