Marjorie Farrell Read Free Page B

now. You do not have the sense of fellow feeling that is needed. I was lucky in my choice of spouse,” the earl continued. “Our whole family has a tendency to arrogance and your mother and my career helped temper mine. Had Millicent married someone other than Somers, perhaps marriage would have tempered hers.”
    “I love Ellen and Celia,” broke in Arden, with a catch in her voice. “I hate Millicent.”
    The earl smiled. “I am not overly fond of her myself. But I see no alternative.”
    “And if I did receive an offer?”
    “I would accept the first man who offered for you.” The way things stand, thought the earl, I would accept the first man who walked through my door.
     

Chapter 4
     
    Captain Gareth Richmond looked at himself in the long pier glass and gave a half-serious, half-humorous groan. He had arrived in London the day before after a long, tiring journey from Portugal, only to find that his luggage, limited as it was, had not arrived with him. The only things he had when he arrived at the hotel were the clothes on his back and the letters and dispatches he was carrying from Wellington to the War Office. And the clothes on his back were travel-stained and smelled like the fishing vessel he had sailed on. The hotel manager had been able to provide him with a clean shirt, but the buttons strained across his chest and his choice was to have small gaps revealing tanned flesh, in order to show some sense of cleanliness, or to keep his coat buttoned up and look as dirty as he truly was.
    Of course he would be able to purchase new clothes, but his first stop in London, which must be made immediately, were to the War Office and to the home of his superior officer, James Huntly, the Earl of Stalbridge. The Beak will understand, he thought, but those desk soldiers in Whitehall will be shocked. Most of them have been on nothing more uncomfortable than a chair for the last few years.
    At least he had been able to wash. He grinned at the dirty bar of soap floating in a basin of brown water. He rubbed his face ruefully, however. He had not shaved for several days, and looked like a ruffian with his dark stubble of beard. But he had fallen in bed last night almost immediately after his arrival and slept right through the awakening knock he had requested. His errands were urgent, and now he had not the time to shave, much less visit a barber. He could only hope that he would meet no one he knew until he had a chance to restore his appearance.
    If he had been taller and leaner and finer featured, he might have passed for a gentleman worse the wear from a night of cards, drinking and whoring. As it was, he did look like a ruffian. He was not a short man, nor a heavy one, but his shoulders and chest were as broad as a laborer’s and his thighs thick with muscle. He had an average face, with blunt features, saved from the ordinary by bright blue eyes set off by skin darkened from his years on The Peninsula. His hair grew in short curls. No fashionable hairdos were possible for him. If he let his hair grow at all, it grew into a wild tangle, so he kept it close-cropped. He was wont to tease his mother that her tendency to eat, breathe, and sleep sheep-breeding, had resulted in his ‘fleece.’ “After all, my lady Mother,” he would tease, “if seeing a fire when increasing may cause a woman to give birth to a child with a red mark, then perhaps being around sheep leads to this” and he would offer his curls for the next shearing.
    * * * *
    Gareth was aware several times on his way to the War Office that people moved out of his way. Not obviously. But peddlers did not approach him and dandies on the way home from a late night suddenly found something interesting in the nearest shop window, in order to let him pass. And when he reached Whitehall, he had a difficult time getting past the reception clerk, until he started threatening to report the man, and showed the official seals on his dispatches. He finished his