Gallant Waif by Anne Gracie (best ereader manga .TXT) 📕

upsetting. It was partly her fault— men were unable to control their baser natures, she’d been told. They took their lead from women, she’d been told. And she’d behaved so indelicately.

Assuring him she was not embarrassed to see his leg! Telling him she was no innocent! That she was well acquainted with the male form! No wonder he’d reacted as he had.

It was clearly eating away at him, for every evening since he had retired to the upstairs parlour and commenced to drink himself into oblivion. He even seemed to have given up on his morning attempts to ride.

Well, she would not stand for it any longer. There were two faces to guilt, she knew—it could fester inside a person, or it could be got rid of, by turning it outward, by turning it to anger. And a healthy dose of anger, Kate decided, was exactly what Mr Jack Carstairs was going to receive.

Carlos eyed the slender, pacing figure with misgiving. If she had a tail she would be lashing it. A wise man would hide himself discreetly away until the fireworks were over. Stealthily he rose. His movement caught Kate’s eye. She stopped and turned towards him, decision and resolution in every inch of her. Carlos’s heart sank. Too late, he thought mournfully.

“Carlos, come with me if you please. And bring that large bucket from the scullery.” Dolefully he did so and followed her out of the room. She marched upstairs to Jack’s private parlour. Carlos felt his hands growing damp. Surely she would know better than to disturb Major Jack at this time of night, when he would be in his blackest, bitterest mood—he would have consumed two bottles, maybe, by now. Ay de mi! It was madness.

*    *    *

Jack lay sprawled in a chair before the fire, a glass of brandy dangling perilously from his long, strong fingers. He gazed into the dancing flames, his eyes half-closed. Damn her. Damn her. Damn her! It had been so much easier before she had come into his life. So much easier. . .and so much duller. He should have forced her to go off with his grandmother.

She wouldn’t have been here long enough to plague him, to provoke him, to insinuate herself into his. . .life.

She had no business being here, scrubbing his floors, cooking his meals, with no one to talk to in the evenings but a foolish old woman, a rascally Spanish groom, two illiterate farm girls and a crippled wreck. She should be in a ballroom, dressed in silk and satin, swirling round the floor as light as thistledown, engaging in light social badinage with a score of men hanging on her every word.

Six months! How would he ever stand it? It was hard enough to keep his hands off her as it was. She was like no woman he’d ever met. She’d been through so much. And yet, to look at her, see that fresh, sweet face, no one could believe she had spent three years at war, seen death, destruction, men at their worst, while in the process losing her entire family.

Curse her father! What the devil did he think he was about, taking a young girl into that hell-hole? Getting himself killed so that she had nobody to look after her, nobody to call her own. Jack lit a cheroot and puffed sullenly, brooding on the iniquities of the Reverend Mr Farleigh. His grandmother had said the damned fool had even refused to let Kate’s grandparents settle money on Kate’s mother. Stiff-necked bloody idiot. Pride was one thing—but to leave his daughter in such straits! Good thing he was dead, Jack thought, or he’d probably have throttled the man…

Dammit, his grandmother had no business leaving her here. She should be in London, finding herself a rich husband, some titled fellow who would pamper her and protect her for the rest of her life, who could give her all the fine things she had been denied. Any man should be grateful to win her… His mouth twisted at the unpalatable thought.

She was so damn naive. She had no idea what her touch had done to him that time when she was massaging him. She was so full of unconscious sensuality and unawakened passion. Would probably fall for the first handsome face she saw. The ton was infested with damned blackguards. He would have to speak to his grandmother about it. Make certain she protected her from the wrong type, make sure she chose well for little Kate.

He drained the glass, then carelessly refilled it, slopping brandy on to the fine polish of the table at his elbow. Whatever he did, he was going to have to get her out of his house and up to London soon, for, the Lord knew, he was having the devil’s own job keeping away from her. And that simply would not do. She was too fine a person to get herself chained to a poverty-stricken, embittered cripple. Scrubbing his floors the rest of her life. He thought of those small, work-roughened hands. No. If it killed him, he would get her out of here and into a fine London drawing-room.

He drank deeply again, and his mood darkened, recalling each and every time he had touched her. His body responded even at the memory and his mouth curled cynically. He had to stop this, had to get her out of his mind and out of his fife. He was finished with women, finished with ladies anyway—even floor-scrubbing ladies with tender, beguiling eyes who smelt so sweet and fresh. They were a trap. Women thought differently from men.

Even the best of them wanted a man for what they could get.

He thought of Julia and the heavy bitterness rose inside him again. Was Kate any different? What would a penniless, homeless orphan want with him—a crippled wreck—an ugly, crippled wreck. . .? A home, perhaps? Even a run-down one like this might look good to a homeless waif. And, while he