Winter Wedding Read Free Page B

of him at night in her bed—a different bed now in a different room. Her former suite had been turned over to Oglethorpe’s parents. She wondered if Allingcote would come. It would be placing too much significance on a brief flirtation to say that Allingcote had been in love with her. Yes, really it would be presumptuous to think anything of the sort. He had seemed to like her—had more than once sought out her company in a rather marked way at the Bellinghams’.
    There, at a large house party including several attractive heiresses, the most eligible, most handsome, most absolutely desirable gentleman at the whole party had selected her as a special friend for all of three days. He had walked, talked, danced, and flirted with her. And then before the production of The Tempest had been staged, he had left very abruptly. His father had taken ill, she heard, and died a month later. She had not seen Allingcote since.
    The memory of his well-shaped, dark head was sharply etched in her mind. She could remember it as seen from any angle. She knew to a degree at what slant his eyebrows rose up from his smoky gray eyes, knew precisely the lineaments of his nose, strong jaw, and chin. She recalled how he walked with a careless lounge and inclined his head toward anyone  to whom he was speaking, because he was taller than most.
    She knew too that if he came, she would be hard-pressed to keep up any show of disinterest. With not a real beauty at the party, it seemed possible he might again favor her for his flirt. She knew she was a ninny to feel such pleasure at the possibility. He had been dashing around the countryside making up to every girl he met. Traveling all the way to Scotland to see the Scottish squab, whom he had no intention of marrying. And there was his local flirt, whoever she might be.
    But there was no point worrying; by the twenty-fourth of December, it was still not clear whether he was coming at all. On Christmas Eve day, a card arrived saying he would stop in on the twenty-sixth, with Miss Muldoon.
    That he was bringing an uninvited guest put Lady Lucker sadly out of frame. “Who the devil is Miss Muldoon?” she demanded. She sat with Prissie and Clara, trying to discover from Prissie whether she could tolerate having a new mauve mohair shawl packed in her trunk. The Highlands, where the honeymoon was to take place, would be cold, especially in winter.
    “She’s that girl he’s been running around with for two years,” Prissie said.
    Miss Priscilla was elegant but she was not amiable. Her smooth blond curls, her pale blue eyes, and her clear complexion were all marred by the sullen expression she wore. Her lips thinned and her nose drew down, ruining what might otherwise have been a passably pretty face.
    “The one Aunt Peggie hates so much, and they think Ben’s going to marry. You remember I told you, Mama, she was with me at Miss Simpson’s Seminary.”
    “Ah, I knew I had heard the name before. So that’s who she is. Peg usually calls her Nel; it was the Muldoon that threw me off. Old Anglin’s ward—a niece, I believe. He was visiting Braemore recently. It seems it has come to a match, if Ben is bringing her here. A fine time he has chosen for it! Why could he not have married her at least, so they would only take up one room?”
    Clara remembered hearing the girl spoken of as a beauty, and her hopes of being the belle of the party and enjoying a flirtation with Allingcote withered to dust. Determined to know the worst, she said to Prissie, “What does she look like?”
    “Blond hair like spun silk and big blue eyes,” Prissie said sullenly.
    “Why, she sounds like you!” Lady Lucker exclaimed, smiling fondly at her daughter. Clara began reconsidering. If Nel Muldoon proved to be no prettier than Prissie...
    “She is a horrid flirt,” Prissie said, offended.
    “Just what Benjie would like,” Lady Lucker decided. “He always favored blondes, like you, Prissie. Poor Gwendolyn has that