Read Online Vivian Roycroft by Mischief on Albemarle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mischief on Albemarle
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just seems the sort of day for arguments and misery, doesn't it?"
His lips twitched, and he gave her a pained smile. It probably looked rather like the one she'd given him.
The rain's tempo increased and pattered against the panes. It was time she joined the weeping. She'd outcry the city; there were so many tears within her fighting for release that there was no reason at all for the springtime bud of hope that poked its green shoot above her soul's surface.
****
The voices behind Fitz rattled on, rather like the rain tapping at the windows, and just as annoying.
"I vote for Boodle's." Crompton's voice, that was. And he would vote for Boodle's. Like a chump.
"White's." Ponsonby's tone brooked no argument. "We have bets and they have the book."
Ah, yes, the book, the book of books or at least the book of bets. Fitz harrumphed. "And what bets might you lot be referencing?"
"Oh, are you alive over there? Been lounging in our sitting room for so long, we thought you'd become part of the furniture." Funny, how Caird's Scots accent vanished so utterly, once they were out of company. "Perhaps we can convince you to sit up, turn around, and join the conversation."
"And then you might ascertain for yourself which bets are under discussion." Ponsonby again. More proof, if proof were required, that the man talked too much.
"Can't imagine anything more boring than that." He'd not even shift on the settee, not for that graceless invitation, even though whatever book had embedded itself into his right buttock gave him every encouragement toward such a movement. At the least. "Converse with you lot? Why, your topics haven't changed since Oxford. Caird's family back home in the savage north, Ponsonby's latest exploits about town, and whatever book Crompton's read lately." Probably the one digging into his increasingly irritated anatomy. "That's all such discussions entail."
"My, someone's grumpy." Ponsonby again ; did the man never shut up? "If our conversations put you to sleep, then why did you select our sitting room in which to grump?"
Rattle rattle rattle. Blitheringly irritating. And not even a tree in the front courtyard for his visual entertainment; nothing but grey brick across the way. Nothing but rain and mindless chatter to distract him from his infuriated thoughts. "Because it's raining."
A chair's creak, as if someone rose, then the soft rustlings of messy, strewn-about belongings being shifted. "Miss Beryl's sitting room is closer to your home than ours." Crompton, doubtless searching for his missing book.
And he would be the one to bring up that sore subject. Not the aggravated right buttock, but Beryl.
She couldn't have meant it. But he'd told himself that lie for the last hour, after stalking from Albemarle to Seamore Place in the rain and throwing himself down atop Crompton's book in his old school chums' comfortably messy sitting room. Or uncomfortably messy, as the case might be. This time it was. Messy, of course. And uncomfortable.
Because he could no longer convince himself that his lie was true. Could no longer convince himself that Beryl hadn't meant it.
She'd rejected him. She'd become enamored with Cumberland, the rake, the rogue, the ruffian; she'd given Cumberland the look a man would die for. And she'd rejected him .
Unbelievable, how much that hurt. More than if she'd swung her riding cane and smacked him across the face. So much for those gentle means of feminine communication over which Cumberland had waxed eloquent.
There had to be a means of extricating her from that out-of-bounds bludgeoner's enchantment. Had to be a way of drawing her back from that brink before she plunged over. Perhaps a word with her father — but no, surely he was behind her suddenly accelerated hunt for a husband. She'd never mentioned that subject in Fitz's presence before, but he knew as well as anyone what a terror Belinda could be.
But did James Wentworth realize in what danger Beryl had chosen to place her
His lips twitched, and he gave her a pained smile. It probably looked rather like the one she'd given him.
The rain's tempo increased and pattered against the panes. It was time she joined the weeping. She'd outcry the city; there were so many tears within her fighting for release that there was no reason at all for the springtime bud of hope that poked its green shoot above her soul's surface.
****
The voices behind Fitz rattled on, rather like the rain tapping at the windows, and just as annoying.
"I vote for Boodle's." Crompton's voice, that was. And he would vote for Boodle's. Like a chump.
"White's." Ponsonby's tone brooked no argument. "We have bets and they have the book."
Ah, yes, the book, the book of books or at least the book of bets. Fitz harrumphed. "And what bets might you lot be referencing?"
"Oh, are you alive over there? Been lounging in our sitting room for so long, we thought you'd become part of the furniture." Funny, how Caird's Scots accent vanished so utterly, once they were out of company. "Perhaps we can convince you to sit up, turn around, and join the conversation."
"And then you might ascertain for yourself which bets are under discussion." Ponsonby again. More proof, if proof were required, that the man talked too much.
"Can't imagine anything more boring than that." He'd not even shift on the settee, not for that graceless invitation, even though whatever book had embedded itself into his right buttock gave him every encouragement toward such a movement. At the least. "Converse with you lot? Why, your topics haven't changed since Oxford. Caird's family back home in the savage north, Ponsonby's latest exploits about town, and whatever book Crompton's read lately." Probably the one digging into his increasingly irritated anatomy. "That's all such discussions entail."
"My, someone's grumpy." Ponsonby again ; did the man never shut up? "If our conversations put you to sleep, then why did you select our sitting room in which to grump?"
Rattle rattle rattle. Blitheringly irritating. And not even a tree in the front courtyard for his visual entertainment; nothing but grey brick across the way. Nothing but rain and mindless chatter to distract him from his infuriated thoughts. "Because it's raining."
A chair's creak, as if someone rose, then the soft rustlings of messy, strewn-about belongings being shifted. "Miss Beryl's sitting room is closer to your home than ours." Crompton, doubtless searching for his missing book.
And he would be the one to bring up that sore subject. Not the aggravated right buttock, but Beryl.
She couldn't have meant it. But he'd told himself that lie for the last hour, after stalking from Albemarle to Seamore Place in the rain and throwing himself down atop Crompton's book in his old school chums' comfortably messy sitting room. Or uncomfortably messy, as the case might be. This time it was. Messy, of course. And uncomfortable.
Because he could no longer convince himself that his lie was true. Could no longer convince himself that Beryl hadn't meant it.
She'd rejected him. She'd become enamored with Cumberland, the rake, the rogue, the ruffian; she'd given Cumberland the look a man would die for. And she'd rejected him .
Unbelievable, how much that hurt. More than if she'd swung her riding cane and smacked him across the face. So much for those gentle means of feminine communication over which Cumberland had waxed eloquent.
There had to be a means of extricating her from that out-of-bounds bludgeoner's enchantment. Had to be a way of drawing her back from that brink before she plunged over. Perhaps a word with her father — but no, surely he was behind her suddenly accelerated hunt for a husband. She'd never mentioned that subject in Fitz's presence before, but he knew as well as anyone what a terror Belinda could be.
But did James Wentworth realize in what danger Beryl had chosen to place her
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