The Wagered Widow Read Free Page B

venture forth at so ungodly an hour, Peter,” murmured de Villars. “Are you by any chance the widow of poor Forbes Parrish, ma’am?”
    â€œShe is,” Boothe put in curtly. “And has come out of blacks today.”
    â€œVery good of you to point that out.” De Villars’ smile was bored. “I’d never have noticed it, else.”
    Uneasily aware of Snowden’s tightening jaw, Rebecca asked, “Are you also an early riser, Sir Peter?”
    â€œI am the despair of my friends,” he admitted with a wry shrug.
    â€œTrue.” De Villars nodded, his quizzing gaze turned upon Rebecca. “But you do, occasionally, redeem yourself, dear boy.”
    Boothe took a pace forward. The belligerence of his chin was alarming, and his blue eyes fairly sparked.
    â€œYou should invite these charming people to your ball,” de Villars went on with a wickedly amused glance at Boothe.
    â€œWhat a capital suggestion!” Ward turned to the ladies and said in his pleasant voice, “It is to be on Friday next, at my house in Clarges Street. I shall have cards sent round at once, but—do say you will come.”
    â€œBut, of course they will come,” said de Villars.
    â€œThank you, Ward.” Still, Boothe’s chin was high. “I shall be glad to attend. My sister is but out of mourning, however, and it would not be seemly for her to do so.”
    â€œHave mercy on us, dear Mrs. Boothe,” pleaded Ward, who had not missed the bristling resentment in Boothe’s voice and was well aware of de Villars’ deadly and well-deserved reputation. “Can you not intercede with your nephew?”
    â€œOh—it would be lovely, of course,” said Albinia, flustered. “But—if Snowden feels…”
    De Villars sighed. “I cannot endure the suspense. What do you feel, Boothe?”
    Snowden’s tightly compressed lips and the glitter in his eyes left little doubt as to what he felt. Alarmed, Rebecca intervened, “Oh, please, Snow. I should like it of all things. It has been such a very long time since I went to a party.” She crossed to take his arm as she spoke and smiled up at him in the coaxing way he could never resist.
    His anger eased. He thought, “Poor little chit, it has been hard on her.” “We-ell,” he said, reluctantly. “There must be no dancing, mind.”
    â€œLord, what a clodpole,” muttered de Villars, his voice unfortunately audible.
    Boothe’s head jerked to him. He said through his teeth, “Your pardon, sir?”
    De Villars smiled and with a languid wave of the cane and a lift of his Satanic brows said innocently, “The muffin man yonder—came dashed near to losing his entire tray.…”
    *   *   *
    â€œI have seldom seen Snow so angry.” Rebecca paused at the laden table in the busy warehouse to inspect a bolt of green velvet. “But—oh, did ever you see such speaking eyes? Or so fine a figure of a man?”
    â€œVery speaking eyes,” her aunt agreed, frowning a little. “And I’ll allow that I have always been partial to the athletic type. Truly a splendid leg and very good shoulders, but—as to disposition…” She pursed her lips doubtfully.
    â€œOh? I thought him delightful. Do you not think this green would become Anthony with his auburn hair?”
    Mrs. Boothe nodded absently. “And a fine grade of velvet. But velvet is so difficult to sew on, love. And if you mean to do it yourself … He would be dangerous, and not an easy man to handle. Though he is the type that—were his heart once given it would be for ever, I fancy.”
    â€œI must do it my—” Rebecca checked and, glancing up at her aunt, echoed, “Dangerous? I thought him all gentleness; all sweet amiability.”
    â€œYou did? With that chin? That devilish smile? Lud! I sensed danger in every line of