Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) Read Free Page A

just thinking about how I would much prefer to be outdoors on such a lovely day.” She bit her tongue, fearing he would ask to accompany her on a walk after the salon. Eager to change the drift of the conversation, she launched into a description of her latest landscape sketches. That normally drove suitors away.
           Across the room, Derrick observed the tall, striking redhead in the mint green mull gown. She was a bit on the thin side and too young for his tastes, but fetching with all that heavy auburn hair falling in artlessly arranged curls over her shoulders. Something about her gestures and posture seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not for the life of him place her.
           A hoarse chuckle from his companion drew his attention away from the girl. “A pretty bit of fluff, Blackthorne's daughter, but I'd not trifle with her, my boy,” Roarke Kenyon cautioned. Kenyon, a short stocky fellow with merry hazel eyes and an ear for gossip, had proven an invaluable source of information regarding the sentiments of pro-British Federalists in his home state of Massachusetts.
           Derrick wished to satisfy his curiosity about the girl and learn more about the illustrious Blackthorne family. Brushing an imaginary speck of dust from the ruffled shirtcuff spilling from the sleeve of his new dark blue jacket, he inquired, “Is she the merchant's daughter or the planter's daughter?”
           “The planter, Quintin. Quite opposed to a war against your country. A sensible fellow, even if his reasons are not the same as ours.”
           “And his reasons would be?” Derrick; prompted.
           “Relates to his cousin Devon.”
           “Ah, he runs a large shipping enterprise, does he not?” Derrick had heard about the two patriarchs of the fabulously wealthy Blackthorne clan. “Old Devon would have a deal to lose if war breaks out.”
           “True, but Devon has an English wife. His son's been living in London for the past year, as a matter of fact. Married an earl's niece, so rumor has it. Then, too, Dev and Quint were raised together, more brothers than cousins, and Dev's part Creek.”
           Derrick paused incredulously in the ritual of opening his cloisonne snuff box. “You mean red Indian?”
           “None other. Quite the scandal some years back, but no one much remembers his origins now that he's become bloody rich.”
           Derrick nodded, piecing together what he had painstakingly gleaned over the past few months. “I understand the Indian confederacies are pro British because they want to halt American expansion into their lands in the west. Do tell me more about this fascinating family.”
           Kenyon's expression grew crafty. “Wouldn't be thinking about taking an American heiress for a wife, would you? Rather a turnabout on the way the Blackthornes have done it.” He chuckled heartily at his own wit.
           In order to learn more about the influential Blackthorne family's politics, Derrick nodded, searching the crowd for the redhead. “As a second son with modest prospects, I must confess, there is a certain appeal...if she's rich enough.”
           “Oh, Elizabeth's rich enough all right.” Kenyon's chuckle set his ample belly to rolling beneath his brocade waistcoat. “But the gel's got bats in her belfry. Wants to be an artist, if you can believe that. Dabbles in paints, running around the city dressed like a ragamuffin. It would take a strong hand to straighten her out, I tell you.”
           Derrick was flummoxed. Never taking his eyes off Elizabeth Blackthorne, he choked out, “A painter, you say?” It couldn't be his harlequin...could it?
           Kenyon proceeded with an embellished description of the girl's disgraceful attire. It was she!
           “She doesn't look the hoyden, I must say,” the Englishman said uncertainly.
           “Appearances can be deceiving, my