The Bargain Bride Read Free

more to do with his own parentage than the Indian’s. “ Je suis Marcel. Monsieur Littleton is an artiste of great note.”
    West took one last look at the paintings on the wall before following Marcel. That great note must be a sour one, indeed. Then he realized that the back side of a beefy man in a breechclout was even less attractive than the paintings. To exacerbate the matter, Marcel flounced down the corridor to the library. There was no other word for it. The model-cum-majordomo swung his hips and jiggled a jig right down the hall.
    Good grief, this was no bucolic bride’s abode. This was Bedlam!

Chapter Two
    Lord and Lady G. lived happily ever after, after their arranged wedding. He lived in London; she lived in Leeds.
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—By Arrangement, a chronicle of arranged marriages, by G. E. Felber
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    T he view from the library was a lot better than the one from behind Marcel’s behind. The windows overlooked a terraced garden, with an orchard in the distance. Inside, the decor was far more pleasing than the hall’s. Here, at least the few paintings carefully placed against the dark wood paneling were truly works of art, skill, and composition. West particularly admired a landscape that hung over the table where Marcel had directed him to liquid refreshments. The artist had captured a storm in the woods so well that West could almost see the branches of the trees moving. The painting was signed C. Littleton , so the man actually did have some degree of talent. He had excellent taste in brandy, too. West poured himself another measure. Lord knew he needed it.
    With the library door left partially open, he could hear shouts and footsteps, curses, and slamming doors. From the feminine tones of some of the imprecations, he gathered he would need a bit more fortification.
    He made a more thorough survey of his surroundings while he waited and sipped his brandy—or brandies. For the first time since coming on this benighted journey, he was pleased with what he saw. A man could be comfortable here. The walls were high, with bookshelves to the ceiling, the windows letting in light to read in the inviting leather armchairs. A wide cherrywood desk was placed in a corner, with what appeared to be the estate ledgers neatly arranged on the shelves behind it. As he examined the other walls of books, West noticed classic literature, plays, and philosophy mixed in with the latest volumes of poetry, fiction, and scientific speculation. One glass-fronted cabinet held a few valuable editions that any collector would prize. The volumes appeared well read and carefully handled, not merely arranged for show, so the household was not entirely filled with barbarians. Here was a gentleman’s library, West decided with relief, not a madman’s. And the brandy was excellent. He eyed the crystal decanter with longing, but set his glass down. He needed all his wits about him if he was to leave Yorkshire alive and a bachelor.
    Eventually Marcel returned. This time he was dressed in proper butlerish attire, from spotless white gloves to dark tailcoat to powdered wig, all of which made the war paint on his face look even more bizarre. He made a formal bow at the door, then announced his master in tones sonorous enough for a bishop. “Monsieur Cornelius Littleton, my lord.” He stepped aside, then led a slender old man into the room by his arm.
    West stepped forward, bowed, and put his hand out. It was Marcel who placed Littleton’s hand in West’s for a shake, before guiding the impeccably dressed gentleman—except for a streak of crimson in his white hair—to one of the leather chairs. That explained the splashed paintings in the hall, West supposed.
    Marcel started to place a blanket over Littleton’s knees, but the old man patted the butler’s hand and said, “Do not fuss, mon ami .” That explained Marcel, West supposed.
    The smell of turpentine and linseed