A Passionate Endeavor Read Free Page B

always
did, the truth. She was as plain and bookish as ever. She was too
small, her eyes were a nondescript gray and too far apart. At least
her freckles had faded, except the one under her eye. Her only
points of pride were her long neck, delicate ears, and tiny
ankles—areas others never noticed or cared a wit about.
    It was only that she had not minded being
plain so much before, really. Well, maybe not too much—except when
Mr. Cox had stopped calling, and perhaps worse yet, when Alexandre
had not responded to the letters. But Elinor Dashwood had taught
her all about patience and its reward.
    Lord Huntington had instigated something
altogether different. Something that was sure to lead to dashed
hopes yet again.
     

     
    It was his favorite time of day, the hour
before dawn. As a child he would slip into his oldest clothes,
sneak through the kitchens for yesterday’s baked remnants, and head
into the fields or streams, fishing tackle in hand. More often than
not, he would end up side by side with the laborers to make hay,
harvest the grains, or oversee the livestock. It was the one time
he had been happy here. He looked down at his useless leg. At least
he was feeling better—maybe still feverish and tired, but not
exhausted to the bone nor plagued by hallucinations. Yes, it would
be a few days before he could contemplate a predawn jaunt. But,
perhaps a trip to the window?
    A knock sounded at his door, and before he
could respond, his sister flew into the room.
    “Oh, you are home!” Rosamunde said,
running toward the bed. “Stevens had me woken early with the news.”
She hugged him, and his throat tightened as he grasped her thin
back through her nightdress.
    She pulled back. “You are a scoundrel for not
sending word. I would have waited up for you,” she said, as her
wide green eyes, so much like his own, filled with tears. “Oh, I am
so glad you are here. I have missed you so.”
    “And, I you.”
    “Still the barefaced charming liar, I see,”
she said, laughing until she looked at his bandaged leg on top of
the down coverlet before Nicholas could cover it with a sheet. “But
what is this? Are you wounded?” Her face paled.
    “I’m afraid I made the mistake of cracking
it,” he said as he reached for her long brown braid, which snaked
over her shoulder. “At least that is the opinion of our new
resident doctor and his nurse, although I must say I came to the
same conclusion within moments of having my horse shot out from
under me.”
    “Oh, Nicholas, not Nimrod!”
    “You show much compassion for my horse, I
see,” he said, forcing a lopsided attempt at a grin. “And little
for my poor leg.”
    “You are as wretched as ever. Don’t try to
pretend you didn’t love that horse. Father gave him to you.”
Rosamunde snatched her braid from his hand when he tried to tickle
her nose with the end of it.
    “Yes. I thought I would never `earn’ him.”
“It was the first time he went against the wishes of Her Grace. You
have to give him that,” she said.
    “Yes. And you paid dearly for that too, as I
recall.” He grasped her hands, forcing her to lie next to him on
the bed, his shoulder offered as a hollow for her head. Stroking
her small head brought a remembered feeling of love.
    “Let us not dwell on the past,” she said,
snuggling against him. “I have good news. Did Stevens tell you that
Father seems to be recovering a bit? When I wrote to you, I was
sure the letter would find you too late. I am so glad you are come.
Will you stay?”
    “At least until this blasted leg has healed,”
he said. “I am going to miss all the wild celebrations in London
when old Boney is routed, as he is sure to be shortly. I will miss
all the cakes and champagne after eating all that mud for so many
months.”
    “Well, I have at least one good thing you can
look forward to, as well as one more bad thing.” He stopped
stroking her hair. “Yes? The bad news first, if you please.”
    “ Mother has invited