A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance Read Online Free Page B

tell you I—? I
wrote and made him a formal offer for your hand. When I visited your aunt’s
house that morning, I was informed you had declined it.’
    ‘Declined it!’ She lifted her hands to
her cheeks, her eyes wide with horror. ‘And you believed him?’
    He shrugged. ‘I had always thought the
prize out of my reach.’
    ‘So that was why you went away! Oh! He
told me that he had demanded to know your intentions and you had said that you
had none.’
    He looked a little amused. ‘The
Machiavellian old devil! I make him my, rather belated, compliments. An
inspired solution to the problem.’
     She was not listening. ‘So that last
evening—we were talking at cross-purposes the entire time. You thought I had
refused you, and I thought you were jilting me.’
    ‘It would seem so.’
    ‘Oh, Jarvis, if only I had known. I
should never have married Brookenby, never.’
    Without turning, he reached out a hand
behind him, and she clasped it. ‘I am glad we know the truth now, sweet Zanthe.
But it makes no odds, you know. We are still forever parted.’
    ‘No, I won’t accept that.’
    He turned then and bowed over her hand,
lifting it to his lips. ‘I’m afraid you will have to, Lady Brookenby. Because I
have no intention of offering for this little hand—ever again.’

 
Four
    ‘Dash
it! Is the doorknocker never still?’ Young Mr Sydney, who had looked forward to
a quiet morning nursing a sore head, had winced at the sound of a carriage
clattering up the crescent and now, as a smart rat-tat-tat sounded on the door,
he held his head in his hands, groaning.
    ‘Not since that morning in the Pump
Room.’ Zanthe pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Launceston would not tell me what hold
he has over Mrs Weatherspoon. I would love to know, wouldn’t you?’
    ‘I wonder he took the trouble. You were
not so very well acquainted with him before you married Brookenby, were you?’
    Zanthe fell silent remembering. Waltzing
in his arms, stolen moments in a moonlit garden, reverent kisses that grew more
and more ardent until she ran from him, frightened, not of him but of herself.
    ‘No, not so very well.’
    The butler had opened the front door.
They heard the sound of voices. ‘One of the hordes of your admirers, I
suppose,’ Perry said with a long-suffering sigh.
    She held up her hand, laughing a little.
‘Not one of mine; Margery’s!’
    The door opened, and the butler
announced, ‘The Reverend Mr Cholmondeley and Miss Cholmondeley.’
    Zanthe rose and held out her hand warmly
to greet them. She still found them a droll pair, especially the lady, but she
could not but respect their simple piety and palpable goodwill.
    ‘Will you not sit down here by the fire,
Miss Cholmondeley? How very kind of you both to come and see us in this
dreadful weather. How it does pour down!’
    ‘Ah yes’ sighed the Reverend. ‘That is
Bath for you, I fear.’
    ‘Indeed,’ echoed his sister. ‘One must
always carry an umbrella in Bath, you know.’
    Zanthe laughed. ‘I had not thought anywhere
could be wetter than Lincolnshire, but I was mistaken. Since we have been here,
I have noticed that, while there is nowhere more delightful in the sunshine, there
is nowhere more dreary in the rain.’
    As they conversed amiably, moving on
from the weather to a concert that the twins were getting up to benefit the
unfortunate, Zanthe noticed that the Reverend appeared somewhat distrait. He
looked up hopefully whenever footsteps were heard outside the door, and his
consequent disappointment was comical to behold. After about ten minutes, his
patience was rewarded as Margery Brookenby came into the room with studied
nonchalance.
    It was instantly apparent to Zanthe that
the last ten minutes had been spent by Margery in changing into a more becoming
gown and a hasty rearrangement of her hair. She wore a long-sleeved round-gown
of burgundy crepe, with black beading across the modest décolletage and a deep
trim of black, gold, and