The Bargain Bride Read Free Page B

he needs to. Or I can paint your portrait with warts and fangs and horns and get it hung in a London gallery and printed on broadsheets. You wouldn’t like being a laughingstock, would you?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œDon’t think I cannot do it. I have great influence in the art world.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œGood. Then I can get back to my work while the light is still good.”
    What did the light matter? West wondered, but the old man brushed his help aside and made his own way out of the room. West sat back to wait some more.
    Marcel brought in a tray with a plate of biscuits and a pot of coffee. West noticed two cups on the tray, but no one came to join him. Since breakfast had been hours ago, West decided to eat without waiting for his hostess. He supposed such insubstantial fare was enough for the frail old man or his scrawny spinster granddaughter, while he would have preferred eggs and steak and ale, but beggars could not be choosers.
    When the last crumb was gone, West stared out the window, walked around the library, picked up a book, then put it down and wandered back to the hall to look at Littleton’s current works. He might not be any connoisseur, but dash it if he could imagine anyone buying the garish, sloppy pieces. He could not even tell whether they were landscapes or portraits.
    Just then he heard a loud noise from the end of the corridor, as if poor Mr. Littleton was falling down the stairs. West rushed through the hall to help, but no one was tumbling to the bottom. Slight Mr. Littleton would not have made that much noise, either. Instead, a woman was clomping down step by furious step in heavy wood-soled boots that were half unlaced. So was her gown, which gaped at the neck. Her hair was wet, with half of it crammed under a beribboned lace cap and half trailing down her shoulders. Her gown was green, her ribbons were yellow and purple, her eyes were blue, and her face was as red as a cooked lobster’s. Jupiter, the female had been dressed by the blind artist!
    She paused when she saw him, ceasing her teeth-jarring descent. She straightened her shoulders and started to step down as gracefully as one could in unfastened boots.
    Ah, West thought, here comes the bride.
    When she reached the bottom, he bowed. Miss Goldwaite bobbed her head in the merest expression of civility and manners. West held his hand out to assist her. She pretended to be as blind as her grandfather, stepping past him back down the corridor.
    West took a deep breath—at least she smelled of rose water, not turpentine—and said, “Miss Goldwaite, I sincerely apologize for arriving so early.”
    She spun on her awkward heels to face him, coming nearly to his chin. Her own jutted out. “Early? Early? Why, you, sir, are late. Thirteen years late, to be exact!”
    It seemed that Miss Goldwaite had used up her po liteness by bobbing her head, nor did she believe in sparring with gloves on.
    West bowed, acknowledging his sins. “I apologize for that also, although I do not believe you wished to wed at the age of thirteen.”
    â€œI do not wish to wed now, either.”
    Which was the best news he’d heard in ages. “I think we should discuss this further, perhaps over a cup of coffee.” Or another brandy.
    Instead of stopping at the library, the woman marched on toward the front entry. “There is nothing to discuss.” She opened the door and nodded in the direction of outside. “Good day.”
    West did not take the unsubtle hint. “I am afraid things are not that easy. Your father—”
    Her face lost the red flush so suddenly West was afraid she was going to faint. He took a step closer, but she squared her shoulders and said, “I will deal with him when he gets here. I am no longer a child. And I will be no man’s chattel, no matter how you men write your foolish laws.”
    â€œIf I might say that I regret what has