Strathmere's Bride Read Online Free Page A

So proud, her face flushed, eyes almost glazed over as she gazed upon her offspring. Curious, Jareth shot a glance to Lord Rathford. He was seated on a Chippendale chair by the fire, his chin on his chest. He was sleeping.
    Jareth almost smiled at the contrast between the man’s apathy and his wife’s euphoria. During dinner, he had been witness to the many differences in them, almost polar opposites on every matter. Yet between them, they had produced this remarkable creature.
    Regarding Helena once again, Jareth studied her, assessing her for the role for which his mother had brought her before him. She would make an exemplary duchess, and an acceptable wife and companion.
    Yes, he decided. He could do much worse than Helena Rathford.
    Chloe settled into her bed. The cup of tea she had set on her bedside table had cooled, but that didn’t disturb her. She still found the drink soothing. She loved the English custom of drinking tea, and she loved their gardens, although she considered them much too severe in design. Everything exact and perfectly aligned. She wanted to plant a huge bush on the right, sprinkle some bulbs from Amsterdam off to the left, draw the eye to an asymmetrical configuration,but it wasn’t her house. It wasn’t her garden, although she always referred to it as such in her mind. She’d sometimes think, I shall go down to my garden tonight, and walk in the darkness and dream of home.
    Except tonight her thoughts had been much closer to her present home than her past. She could not keep herself from thinking about the duke. For all of his impeccably tailored clothing and unwaveringly cool manner, she had thought she spied a sadness in his dark eyes, eyes that were almost pretty, with an absurd abundance of sooty lashes that would make any debutante weep with envy. But he had disappointed her in the end, hadn’t he, caught just as much in the trappings of high convention as his myopic mother.
    She sighed and sipped the tepid tea. She had almost forgotten her father’s letter, with so much on her mind. With a smile, she sank down against the assemblage of pillows piled behind her. It was one of the few luxuries in which she indulged, this plethora of pillows.
    She opened her letter. Papa’s bold, spidery handwriting scrawled out the French words. Reading them was like music to her.
Dearest daughter,
    It is my fondest wish this letter finds you well and happy. Your last letter was amusing, so I am to think you are faring better in England than I would have guessed. How I miss you. Last night, Madame Duvier asked about you and we laughed, recalling how you sneaked the lamb into your bedchamber when you were fiveyears old, and I realized then that I miss your mischief, though I can hardly believe I’m saying so.
    Madame Duvier loved to tell that story. The pretty widow had a talent for making people laugh, and her father had been mentioning her often in his letters of late. Perhaps he was hinting at something, seeing if Chloe approved. She resolved to include abundant praise for the woman in her next letter. Papa was so funny to worry. Hadn’t she been prodding and pushing him for years since Mama had died to find someone to fill his life?
    The rest of the letter included the usual gossip about her brother, who continued, against her father’s good counsel, to pay court to a village girl everyone knew was fickle and false. Her sister, Gigi, was well, her baby growing rapidly and, according to Papa, petted and spoiled and utterly enchanting.
    When Chloe was through, she read it again, then folded it and tucked it in her nightstand drawer. She would read it several more times before placing it with the others in the cloth-covered box under her bed.
    She stretched out, feeling the familiar warm mixture of pleasure and pain in her breast It was always like this after Papa’s letters. She missed them all, her family, who were flawed, yes, and not grand like dukes or duchesses, but pleasant, simple