The Scandal Before Christmas Read Free Page A

Lesley had pointed the considerable prow of her bosom down the corridor, toward his private study, and was sailing him onward, still laying down covering fire with her constant stream of chatter. “A lovely house, with a very pretty aspect, to be sure, as I was saying to the dear colonel as we drove up. And this would be the drawing room…”
    “No, ma’am. The drawing room would be over here.” He steered her helm back toward the front of the house, where Pinky held open the drawing room door, looking like a hopeful, aged cherub.
    “Oh, yes. Very nice,” Mrs. Lesley exclaimed as she took in the sunny, warm room. “I expect she’ll do very well here. I’m sure she’ll like this room with all its sun and cozy seats. Very comfortable, to be sure, and not too grand.”
    Mrs. Lesley was over-awed by his ancestry. But Ian had rather meet the girl—who still had not appeared within his vision—than assure the Lesleys that he was nothing like his too-grand family. Such a misapprehension was exactly why he had wanted them to bring the girl here, to his cottage, instead of anywhere else.
    But where was she?
    A quiet, unassuming girl, Lesley had said. Perhaps she was shy. Yes, shy was better than the alternatives playing the devil in his mind, turning her into an ogre, or worse, a nothing. Damn his eyes. He didn’t know what he’d do if she were a nothing. He taunted himself with the idea that ugly would at least be better than plain. Ugly was at the very least interesting.
    Ian’s gut hitched itself into a tighter knot. But still he was the host. “May I offer you some refreshment before you are shown up to your rooms?” Ian turned to speak to Pinky about bringing in the coffee and tea when suddenly Ian felt, rather than saw, a small brown shadow behind the colonel.
    Ian could have sworn that he had not heard or seen her enter, yet there she was, a sudden silhouette in the sunlight, creating a small presence behind her father.
    The knot in his gut strangled itself in disappointment. Ian was entirely underwhelmed. The girl was as plain and unappealing as a pikestaff.
    A pikestaff he had no alternative but to marry.
    So plain and unassuming and quiet, even the colonel and his wife seemed unaware of her—the lady carried on without any acknowledgement of her offspring, while her father only noticed her belatedly when he stepped back from his inspection of some aspect of the room’s decoration—a model frigate Ian had constructed years ago when he had been a midshipman—and trod all over the hem of the girl’s gown.
    Not that the gown would have been any great loss—it wasn’t much as fashion went. Certainly it was as plain and unadorned and dun-colored a traveling dress as he had ever seen, and it did very little to enhance the very plain appearance of its wearer.
    Who was herself as plain and brown as a marsh wren. Brown bonnet, brown hair, brown gown, and quite possibly brown eyes. Ian wasn’t sure, because she kept her face turned resolutely down even as he came forward to greet her. “How do you do? I’m Ian Worth. Welcome to Gull Cottage.”
    The girl curtseyed well enough, but would not look at him, and said not a peep. Ian was quite sure Miss Lesley—whose name no one had thought to offer him yet—was as unassuming and uninteresting as a dishcloth.
    Just as he had so carefully specified, damn his eyes to hell.
    He retreated behind the defensive barricade of civility and politeness, when Pinky bustled in with hot coffee and tea to revive the road-chilled travelers. “Would you take some tea, Miss Lesley?”
    “Oh, yes, I thank you.” Mrs. Lesley took command of the entirety of the conversation like a jealous admiral. “I’ll arrange it.”
    At that moment, Ian wanted nothing so much as a large glass of brandy or whisky. A very large glass. Large enough to drown himself in.
    “What a lovely prospect down the lawn to the sea. And such furnishings,” Mrs. Lesley enthused. “Very tasteful. Not at