The Wagered Widow Read Free Page A

cravat, adding to an over-all effect of dazzling elegance. Rebecca’s gaze slanted to his face. The features were strong but gaunt, the nose Roman, the cheekbones high, and the chin a square and determined jut. His complexion was clear, if inclined to sallowness, suggesting that his hair must be very dark, as were his thick, sharply peaked brows. An interesting face, decided Rebecca, if not a handsome one, yet never had she seen such cold grey eyes, nor so mockingly cynical an expression.
    Snowden Boothe glanced over his shoulder, and at once his own eyes hardened. “Give you good day,” he said with bleak formality.
    â€œNo trouble at all, my dear fellow,” murmured the newcomer. But he did not look at Boothe, his hard eyes continuing to scan Rebecca from the ruffles of her hood to the little pink slipper that peeped beneath her gown.
    Again dismounting, and holding the reins with an unwontedly firm grip, Boothe enquired, “Your pardon?”
    The heavy brows lifted, the grey eyes shifted lazily to meet Boothe’s level stare. “Did I mistake?” he queried in a deep, insolent drawl. “I had fancied you apologized, Boothe. You came da—er, curst near to oversetting us, y’know.”
    Rebecca, who had begun to believe herself clad only in her corset, was incalculably relieved by the removal of the rude stare, but at these words anxiety twitched her brows together. Snowden had such a swift temper. Her brother, however, having noted that another gentleman had left the carriage and was inspecting the knees of one of the horses, said a repentant, “The devil! Have I caused your cattle to be hurt, then? Now curse me if I don’t have this clunch put to the plough!”
    â€œI would curse you did you do such a thing to…” The cool appraisal slid again to Rebecca, “to—so splendid a creature.”
    His thin lips eased into a smile, his admiration was obvious, and Rebecca was mortified to feel her cheeks become hot. She turned her head away with lofty dignity and stepped closer to her aunt.
    Boothe, meanwhile, led his horse over to the carriage, where he apparently discovered an acquaintance, for there ensued an interlude of shouting and back thumping. Rebecca murmured something trite to her aunt and contrived to ignore Snowden’s maddening behaviour, not daring to glance his way for fear of again meeting the smirking grin on the face of this flirtatious Unknown.
    Boothe returned at last, bringing his friend with him, and calling cheerfully that they must meet “good old Ward. Peter, I present my aunt, Mrs. Boothe, and my sister, Mrs. Parrish—Sir Peter Ward.”
    Pinning a smile upon reluctant lips, Rebecca turned about. Her smile died aborning and it was only with an effort that she restored it. A slender gentleman stood before her, and as he removed his tricorne to bow first to her aunt and then to herself, she saw that his thick hair, lightly powdered, revealed here and there a gleam of gold. Straightening, he smiled warmly at her, and she experienced the oddest sensation, as if she had left the ground and was floating off into the clouds. Surely, she thought dreamily, there had never been so perfect a gentleman. His hazel eyes were wide and deepset beneath arched brows of a light brown. The hair framing his high brow struggled to curl despite the severity with which it had been tied back. His nose was classically straight, his chin firm, his mouth well shaped and generous.
    A polite cough jolted Rebecca back to earth. A sardonic voice remarked, “Boothe is forgetful, as ever, Peter. Pray present me.”
    â€œYour pardon,” said Snowden hurriedly. “Ladies—the Honourable Trevelyan de Villars.”
    â€œHonourable, is it?” thought Rebecca, dropping a curtsey in response to a graceful bow. “What a farradiddle! The man’s a libertine if ever I saw one!”
    â€œHow glad I am that you persuaded me to