Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

“Ah, and a page or two of the newspaper, if you please.”

“Of course, ma’am. I understand that it isn’t really the done thing for ladies to read newspapers, other than the court pages and the society pages, but, after all, you are Lady Arabella of Evesham Abbey. As your gracious host, it would be impolite of me to give you guidance. Is there any particular page you would prefer?”

“Since I would not wish to deprive you, you may give me a page that you have already read.”

“Here you are, ma’am.” As she twitched the pages from his outstretched hand, he noticed angry scratches on the back of her left hand. And there was that scruffed-up chin of hers and the long scratches on her cheek. He wondered what other damage there was beneath her clothes. And there was a thought. He could easily imagine that her breasts were really quite lovely, and a handful. His hand cupped around his coffee cup inadvertently. As for the rest of her, he swallowed his coffee and choked. She just stared at him with vague disinterest until he stopped coughing.

“If you had turned blue in the face, I promise I would have done something,” she said, her voice as bland as the yellow draperies on the windows.

“Thank you. I am fine now. I was just thinking rather disconcerting thoughts. I hope you are feeling better this morning? Here, have some more eggs. You need to gain flesh.”

“My papa always said that a woman should never gain flesh. He said it was displeasing.”

“Displeasing to whom?”

“Why, to gentlemen, I would think.”

“And should gentlemen gain flesh?”

“I believe,” she said very clearly, “that gentlemen can do whatever pleases them without fear of much or any retribution. What lady, after all, is going to tell her husband that she dislikes his heavy jowls or his paunch when he is the one who doles out the money?”

“That is an excellent point. However, I will allow it. You may eat. Then, if you’ve eaten enough in my estimation, I will give you your allowance.” She gave it up, tossed up her newspaper and let it fall to the carpet.

“Yes, I’m relieved you appear quite recovered this morning, but not surprised. Dr. Branyon assured me last evening that you would be restored to your usual self today. Since that made all present roll their eyes, I imagined that your usual self is something of a treat for everyone.”

“I’m not a treat—no, no, you meant that as a trial and I’m not a trial to anyone. Well, maybe to you, but surely that’s understandable. I don’t like you. I wish you weren’t here. Rather, I know you have to be here since you’re the new earl, but I don’t have to like it. Damn you.” Her fork trembled in her hand, but she quickly raised it to her mouth.

“You said a lot there. Much of which I would say myself about you, but I am a gentleman. I am polite. I am the host. I must be polite. Would you care to ride with me, ma’am? After you’ve finished your breakfast, of course. I am nearly done myself. I would appreciate a tour of the property. If you can bring yourself to do it.” She wanted to refuse him. She wanted him to ride out and get lost and maybe have his horse toss him into the fishpond, but it didn’t make any sense since the fishpond was only a couple of feet deep. “I will take you about,” she said. “I am not illogical.” He raised a black eyebrow to that, in just the same fashion that she did, as her father had done. Her father. She felt her throat close. Damnable pain. She welcomed it but she hated it, too, because it stripped her and laid her raw.

He saw it, knew she would hate it if she knew he’d seen it, and said,

“Excellent. Which horse do you ride, ma’am? I shall send word to the stables.”

“The earl’s horse,” she said without thought, still sunk in misery.

He didn’t like her sunk like this, thus he said, “Oh? Do you not think it will be a trifle uncomfortable riding pillion? Not, of course, that I would necessarily mind sharing my horse with you, at least until you’ve gained more flesh. Then perhaps the poor beast would not be too pleased carting about the both of us.”

That did the trick. She looked at him as if she would like to wrap the tablecloth about his head and smother him. He grinned at her.

“You did that on purpose. You know I did not mean your bloody horse. I meant the earl’s, that is, my father’s—”

“You mean Lucifer.”

“You knew that I did all along.”

“You have my permission to ride Lucifer.”

“I shoot very well,” she said, shoving back her chair in a motion reminiscent of her display in the library the afternoon before.

“I would appreciate it, ma’am, if you would contrive to take better care of my furniture.”

She couldn’t find words to demolish him. It was because she was tired. It was because she’d so recently felt flattened. She could only stare at him, hoping he could see the killer light in her eyes.

He rose and came to her. “Come, my dear ma’am. Don’t you think we’ve flayed each other sufficiently this morning? I, for one, would not particularly care to have my breakfast disagree with me.” At her continued silence—actually, she was grinding her teeth—he added with a smile, “I will make Lucifer a gift to you. Soon we shall rename him the countess’s horse.”

“Ah, that is bald speaking.”

“Naturally, I’m a bald man.” She snorted, he was sure he heard it. The preamble to a laugh. Her grief for her father would lessen, slowly, but it would lessen, and he could help her if she would allow it. Odd that he did not believe her a shrew, a harridan, and a termagant all rolled into one this morning. He