Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed Read Free

match. Where would I have met such in Bath? And why would I be hiding my conquest from you?”
    “Precisely what I was wondering.”
    Sophie flounced to the door. “I know well what you’re doing, brother mine. Attack is the best form of defense, but one day you’ll realize I was right.”
    Lord Wraybourne was left to shake his head at the slammed door. It would be restful when Sophie moved into the house of their cousin Maria, Lady Harroving, who was bringing her out. But he wondered whether she had not become a little too lively in her manners in recent years. She had lived in Bath with his mother, who had removed there on the death of the ninth earl two years ago. But his mother, in her grief, had become a recluse. He feared she had not watched over her daughter as well as she might.
    He compared Sophie with Jane Sandiford to the latter’s advantage. Jane was the most composed young woman he had ever met. She was never impetuous, her voice was always well-modulated, and her words considered. She exhibited no extreme emotions. She would be a restful and congenial companion.
    He smiled slightly as he thought that Miss Sandiford might prove to be more. There were dozens of well-bred eligibles around but none had intrigued him like Jane, with her lush figure beneath schoolgirl gowns and the quickly veiled flashes of humor and passion which would light her serious eyes.
    He put these tantalizing thoughts away and returned to the problem of his sister. Heaven help the man who married Sophie. But he did know that man would be socially acceptable, at least. Sophie had high standards. He had hopes his friend Lord Trenholme would come up to scratch and be accepted, for he would be able to control her and he was a kind, intelligent man. But there was nothing to be done until the Season started.
    Thankful for tranquillity, Lord Wraybourne settled back to his newssheet. But he had merely glanced at the editorial when his peace was invaded again, this time by his uncle Henry. Mr. Moulton-Scrope was a dignified man with a tidy estate in Berkshire and a position in the Home Office. He also had his own fine home in London but no one would have suspected it from the way he commanded the butler, Harper, to bring him some ale and beef.
    “Excuse me calling so informally, David. I need to speak to you and I’m tied up all day. Thought I’d breakfast here.” Mr. Moulton-Scrope flipped up the tails of his coat and settled his ample form into a chair as the butler laid a place.
    “Should eat a good old-fashioned breakfast, David,” he announced, and launched into his favorite subject: how the ridiculous eating habits of the younger generation were going to ruin the country.
    “How can we raise a nation of fighting men on little morsels of fancied-up food?” he demanded, cutting into the excellent rare beef which Harper had brought up from the kitchen especially, his lordship having no taste for it at breakfast. “Look at you. A strip of wind!”
    Even as he spoke, Mr. Moulton-Scrope knew his description was unfair. It was true Lord Wraybourne was not of a large build but his was the slenderness and grace of muscles, not frailty. Mr. Moulton-Scrope had seen him fence, his favorite sport, and knew him to be a formidable opponent.
    Lord Wraybourne was too wise to be drawn into an old debate. “What can I do for you, Uncle? I have my secretary and my estate manager from Stenby waiting.”
    “I need your help with a little problem, David.”
    Lord Wraybourne was surprised. In the tight circle of Society he and his uncle encountered one another frequently but they could not be called close. Mr. Moulton-Scrope was deeply involved with the political machinations of the day and took his post at the Home Office with great seriousness. Neither David’s duties as a landowner nor his social life meshed with his uncle’s tastes at all.
    “If I can help you, Uncle, I am yours to command.”
    “Excellent,” replied the older man with