A Gentleman Never Tells Read Free Page B

Again.
    â€œEight minutes since you last inquired,” he answered, not looking up from the book he was attempting to read.
    Hattie believed that books were old-­fashioned, and she would rather talk. Unfortunately, her subjects of conversation were limited to her thoughts and feelings on any given subject. After weeks of extremely close proximity, Oliver could anticipate her feelings on any subject, so there was little to discover by further dialogue.
    She liked pretty dresses, and pretty trees, and pretty sheep. She disliked anything that reminded her of mud, or rain, or less pretty animals. She positively hated anything dirty. Horses joined that list after she ruined a pair of favorite slippers stepping into dung.
    Pimples were apparently the work of the devil (she cited her mother’s authority on this point), and not the result of eating two chocolate puddings at one sitting, as Oliver had suggested.
    Olivier thought that carriages were the work of the devil. That, and whoever had invented the stupid idea of holding house parties in godforsaken parts of England.
    â€œThere are so many sheep in the world,” Hattie observed. “That field looks as if it’s full of white buttercups, if there is such a thing as a white buttercup. Ooh, look, there’s a lamb! It’s so pretty . . . no, it’s too late. Really, Uncle Oliver, you should put that book down and look out the window so you don’t miss everything.”
    When the vehicle finally drew into a cobblestone courtyard, Hattie erupted from the carriage and flew straight through the open front door of the manor house. Oliver climbed down and stretched.
    Telford Manor, home of Lord Windingham and his wife, was an old, comfortable house made of red herringbone bricks, with sloping roofs going in all directions. Unlike his niece, Oliver felt markedly reluctant to enter the house, never mind the fact that a butler stood in the doorway waiting for him.
    His coachman was consulting with the stablemaster about returning the horses to the posting inn in Ashington. “Everything all right here?” Oliver said, joining them.
    â€œSnug and tight, sir,” his coachman said, turning back to his conversation. “Now, then, Mr. Puttle, let’s get these horses into the stables, shall we? We’ll rest them overnight and I’ll take them back in the morning.”
    With no further manly exchange to be had, there was only one option, so Oliver marched into the house and surrendered to the butler, whose name turned out to be Bartleby.
    â€œMay I relieve you of your overcoat, sir?” Bartleby asked.
    Oliver was thinking that perhaps he should return those horses himself. He could turn about and head for the posting house and return on horseback in a few days. He could give the household time to prepare.
    To get used to the idea.
    He could get used to the idea.
    â€œWhat happened to my niece?” he asked Bartleby, who was silently waiting for him to make up his mind. Good butlers were like that. They seemed to know what was going through your head before you did.
    Bloody annoying, if you thought about it.
    â€œMiss Windingham escorted Miss Sloane to a chamber, so that she might refresh herself after the drive. Lady Windingham would be pleased if you joined her in the drawing room, or, if you wish, I can bring you to your chamber.”
    â€œI shall greet her ladyship first,” Oliver said. He might as well get the initial meeting over with. Not that he meant to blurt out an apology immediately. He had to choose the right moment.
    â€œIf you would follow me, sir, I shall announce you.”
    â€œRight,” he said, squaring his shoulders.
    The drawing room had to be a quarter mile long, and the only thing that stopped it from resembling Versailles was that half the gilt paint had been rubbed off the mirrors. Well, that, and a mirror or two had gone missing, leaving only ten or eleven on each wall.
    He