An Unsuitable Bride Read Free Page A

to your chamber. You’ll want to wash off the dirt of the road before dinner.”
    Marcus led the way upstairs to a commodious chamber at the back of the house. “John will valet you. I’ll send him up straightway.” He gestured to a pier table by the window. “Claret and Madeira should you feel the need. I’ll see you in the drawing room in half an hour.” The door closed behind him.
    Peregrine surveyed his surroundings. His portmanteau had been unstrapped from his horse and unpacked, and his clothes were hanging in the armoire. A knock at the door brought a manservant with a jug of steaming water and an array of fresh towels over his arm. “Good evening, sir.”
    “Good evening, John . . . I believe it is.” Perry stripped off his coat. “I’m covered in dust from the road, and I need a shave. Would you sharpen my blade?”
    “Aye, sir.” The valet set to work with blade and strop while Perry stripped to his undergarments.
    Half an hour later, he presented himself in the drawing room, dressed appropriately in a suit of wine-colored velvet, plain white stockings, buckled shoes. His only jewelry was a turquoise stud in the froth of lace at his throat and a clasp of the same stone confining the fair queue at the nape of his neck.
    “Ah, there you are, Perry. Everything to your satisfaction,I trust.” Marcus poured claret and handed a glass to his guest.
    “Perfectly, I thank you.” Perry took the glass, raised it in a toast, and wandered to the bow window that looked across the sweep of lawn to the glittering blue sliver of sea glimpsed through the windbreak. “Exquisite setting, Marcus.”
    “Don’t I know it,” the other responded, coming to stand beside him. “My stepfather was a careful landowner. His death was very sudden, a fever out of nowhere, and he was dead within two days.” He shook his head. “The physicians couldn’t fathom it. He seemed as strong as a horse when he was struck down. They muttered about a weak heart after the fact, but ’tis still a puzzle. Anyway, he left the estate and the accounts in immaculate order.
    “Unfortunately—” He stopped abruptly, cleared his throat, and changed the subject. “If you care for a day’s fishing, Perry, the trout stream is well stocked.”
    “One of my favorite country pastimes,” Perry said easily, even as he wondered what his friend had been about to say.
    “Lady Douglas is descending, gentlemen.” The steward spoke from the door behind them.
    Marcus nodded. “Thank you, Baker.” He went to the sideboard, where glasses and decanters stood, and poured a small measure of ratafia into a delicate crystal glass.
    “Ah, dear boys, you’re down before me.” The light voice emanated from what to Perry’s bemused gaze appeared to be a billowing ball of silks, chiffons, and paisley shawls. From within the depths of these fabrics, a pair of light brown eyes glimmered, and a small, very white, heavily beringed hand appeared. He bowed over it. “Lady Douglas, I am most grateful for your hospitality.”
    “Nonsense.” She waved the hand airily. “My dear Marcus’s friends are always most welcome.” The ball of material flowed to a chaise longue and reposed itself in elegant folds, which, when they had finally settled, revealed the plump figure and doll-like countenance of a lady of early middle years. She smiled amiably at Peregrine and dabbed a lavender-soaked scrap of lace at her temples. “I am something of an invalid, unfortunately, so you must forgive me if I keep to my own chamber most of the time.” She sighed. “ ’Tis such a trial, but we must be grateful for what we have, isn’t that so, Marcus?”
    “Indeed, ma’am,” her son agreed gravely, handing her the glass of ratafia. “I trust this will give you a little more strength before we dine.”
    “Oh, yes, such a tonic I find it.” She sipped with a complacent smile. “So, tell me, Mr. Sullivan, what is the gossip from London?” Another little sigh, before she