JoAnn Wendt Read Online Free
Author: Beyond the Dawn
deceit.
Deceit.
If this night didn’t bring a child, she would be forced to... She wrenched her face away, her pillow rustling. Dear God, no! No one else! Not after the wonder of tonight! Heart hammering, she lay there praying for a child and alternately begging God not to give her one. She trembled at the thought of the duke’s shrewd eyes inspecting his heir. Suppose he grew suspicious? Panic surged. She must get back to Uncle Simon, back to the coach, back to Uncle’s house, where she was presumed to be spending the night.
The sea captain’s arm was dead weight upon her.His breathing was deep, calm. She must go. Uncle would be pacing the alley, eaten up with worry. The hour was terribly late.
Flavia cast her eyes about the room, getting her bearings. The room was poorly lit. The oil lamp scattered grotesque shadows that changed form with each flicker of flame. She made out her cloak, lying in a dark heap on the floor. Petticoats and bodice topped a broken chair. Her chemise and stockings rested beneath his breeches on the floor beside the bed.
Holding her breath, she carefully lifted his leaden arm and inched out from under his hot embrace. Icy sheets met her legs, an icy floor her bare feet.
Escaping the bed, she dressed in haste. When a silk petticoat rustled going over her head, she caught her breath. She froze, her eyes leaping to the bed. But he slept on. Snatching up her cloak, she stole to the door. Her heart hammered as she eased up the heavy crossbar. Luck was with her. The battered old door with its decoration of knife scars opened without comment.
Hovering on the threshold, she permitted herself a glance at the figure on the bed. His hair was shockingly dark against the pillow. It had not seemed so when she was close. She had a sudden urge to cross the room and study the color of his hair, drinking it in, engraving the detail in her memory, where she could keep it and cherish it forever. But this she knew to be foolishness. Foolishness born of the stress of this unnatural night. Still, she hovered, gazing wistfully at him.
I shall never see him again. Never.
She knew she should feel profound relief. But somehow the finality of it settled into her heart like a stone. She could feel tears gathering. She blinked them away.
“I don’t even know your name,” she whispered softly. “Only that you are captain of the Caroline ...”
In the sputtering lamplight, he moved restlessly in his sleep. Flavia caught her breath. Sweeping her gaze over him one last time, she turned and slipped into a hallway that reeked of fried fish and ale. Soundlessly, she pulled the door shut.
Fighting tears, she flew down the ill-lit passageway, and, stumbling blindly down creaking uneven stairs, ran out into the fog and into her godfather’s comforting arms.
Chapter 3
September 1753
Almost two years later
Tewksbury Hall was ablaze with light. Set against the starless London night and the black flowing river, the seventy-room ducal mansion glittered like a fairyland.
Within, countless candles of the finest beeswax flamed in ornate silver and brass sconces. The melting wax sent up a delicate, expensive fragrance. In the east and west wing ballrooms, crystal chandeliers were springing to life. Footmen in black and gold livery tiptoed to each chandelier, lifting long brass candlelighters to candles nestled in crystal. The candle wicks caught fire one by one and prisms of light shot out from chandeliers and went spinning over a polished rich walnut dancing floor. The immense empty chambers reverberated with the discordant sounds of violins tuning up.
Out of doors, the dark rolling grounds of Tewksbury twinkled with diamond-like light. Brass lanterns burned everywhere: lanterns dotted the vast gardens; lanterns marched down formal French terraces to the river; lanterns converged on red-carpeted landings where wealthy guests would arrive in private river barges; lanterns lit a newly constructed gazebo at the
Deceit.
If this night didn’t bring a child, she would be forced to... She wrenched her face away, her pillow rustling. Dear God, no! No one else! Not after the wonder of tonight! Heart hammering, she lay there praying for a child and alternately begging God not to give her one. She trembled at the thought of the duke’s shrewd eyes inspecting his heir. Suppose he grew suspicious? Panic surged. She must get back to Uncle Simon, back to the coach, back to Uncle’s house, where she was presumed to be spending the night.
The sea captain’s arm was dead weight upon her.His breathing was deep, calm. She must go. Uncle would be pacing the alley, eaten up with worry. The hour was terribly late.
Flavia cast her eyes about the room, getting her bearings. The room was poorly lit. The oil lamp scattered grotesque shadows that changed form with each flicker of flame. She made out her cloak, lying in a dark heap on the floor. Petticoats and bodice topped a broken chair. Her chemise and stockings rested beneath his breeches on the floor beside the bed.
Holding her breath, she carefully lifted his leaden arm and inched out from under his hot embrace. Icy sheets met her legs, an icy floor her bare feet.
Escaping the bed, she dressed in haste. When a silk petticoat rustled going over her head, she caught her breath. She froze, her eyes leaping to the bed. But he slept on. Snatching up her cloak, she stole to the door. Her heart hammered as she eased up the heavy crossbar. Luck was with her. The battered old door with its decoration of knife scars opened without comment.
Hovering on the threshold, she permitted herself a glance at the figure on the bed. His hair was shockingly dark against the pillow. It had not seemed so when she was close. She had a sudden urge to cross the room and study the color of his hair, drinking it in, engraving the detail in her memory, where she could keep it and cherish it forever. But this she knew to be foolishness. Foolishness born of the stress of this unnatural night. Still, she hovered, gazing wistfully at him.
I shall never see him again. Never.
She knew she should feel profound relief. But somehow the finality of it settled into her heart like a stone. She could feel tears gathering. She blinked them away.
“I don’t even know your name,” she whispered softly. “Only that you are captain of the Caroline ...”
In the sputtering lamplight, he moved restlessly in his sleep. Flavia caught her breath. Sweeping her gaze over him one last time, she turned and slipped into a hallway that reeked of fried fish and ale. Soundlessly, she pulled the door shut.
Fighting tears, she flew down the ill-lit passageway, and, stumbling blindly down creaking uneven stairs, ran out into the fog and into her godfather’s comforting arms.
Chapter 3
September 1753
Almost two years later
Tewksbury Hall was ablaze with light. Set against the starless London night and the black flowing river, the seventy-room ducal mansion glittered like a fairyland.
Within, countless candles of the finest beeswax flamed in ornate silver and brass sconces. The melting wax sent up a delicate, expensive fragrance. In the east and west wing ballrooms, crystal chandeliers were springing to life. Footmen in black and gold livery tiptoed to each chandelier, lifting long brass candlelighters to candles nestled in crystal. The candle wicks caught fire one by one and prisms of light shot out from chandeliers and went spinning over a polished rich walnut dancing floor. The immense empty chambers reverberated with the discordant sounds of violins tuning up.
Out of doors, the dark rolling grounds of Tewksbury twinkled with diamond-like light. Brass lanterns burned everywhere: lanterns dotted the vast gardens; lanterns marched down formal French terraces to the river; lanterns converged on red-carpeted landings where wealthy guests would arrive in private river barges; lanterns lit a newly constructed gazebo at the
Readers choose
James Mallory
Carol Grace
Lee Lamothe
Too Far
Pepper Pace
Ian Buruma
Lora Leigh
Carolyn Hart
Kris DeLake
Xyla Turner