Read Patricia Rice for Free Online Page B

seemed to be pondering her diatribe.
    “I take your point,” he said gravely. “Husbands are a nuisance. Now, explain away a good steward.”
    “They quit when one disagrees with them.” She refused to tell him that she couldn’t afford one.
    “Of course. If one is disagreeable, stewards would be hard to find.”
    He was laughing at her. She didn’t know whether to weep in frustration or tell him what she thought of his behavior.
    No doubt he’d just laugh at her if she tried.
    “I’m going with you to the thatcher’s,” she said firmly as they reached the house.
    “You will learn nothing that will be of any use to you,” he warned.
    Yes, she would. She would learn how to stand up for herself—at least with one man.
    It was a long way from confronting the bankers and
solicitors who threatened to take away her home, but it was a step in
the right direction.

Four
    Refusing the offer of the lady’s antiquated
barouche, Mac harnessed the horse to his rented post chaise. He’d hated
leaving his own horse in London, but he’d had to remove the children in
haste.
    “It is a very small carriage,” Miss Cavendish said
dubiously. Her fingers trembled as he helped her in, making him
extremely aware of how small her hand was.
    Odd, how he could forget for even a moment that she
was one of those delicate ladies he so despised. Her soft scent of
lilacs crept up on him when he least expected it.
    “The carriage is light and well-balanced, which is
more than that monstrosity of yours can claim.” Irritated by his
reaction to her, Mac circled the carriage to the driver’s side. He’d
already determined that everything about her estate was ancient, except
the house and its contents. The mansion had been added on to, improved
upon, decorated, and embellished until it looked more a fantasy castle
than a place to live.
    The princess presiding over the fantasy crossed her
hands in her lap and haughtily straightened her shoulders. Mac might
despise snobbery, but Miss Cavendish came by her regal bearing
naturally. A woman of her build and stature could do no less. Now, if he
could only persuade her to talk or smile, the next few weeks might be
tolerable.
    As they drove down the drive and through the hedged
lane, the village of Broadbury spilled down the hillside below them. The
unusually wide road running between rows of neat two-story cottages
identified it as a market town. Built one against the other, each
cottage glowed with the warm golden tones of the local stone. Nodding
heads of colorful flowers adorned windowsills and yards all up and down
the road. He’d come from a country of large brick houses, some with
gracious columned porches, but Mac couldn’t remember ever seeing a town
as charming and picturesque as this one. Or as indolent.
    A lone man stood on a ladder in front of one of the
wider buildings, removing a tattered wooden sign depicting a faded bull.
At the foot of the ladder rested a bright new sign of a golden crown.
An idler leaned against the inn wall, apparently directing the placement
of the sign, probably to the annoyance of the sign maker.
    A few sheep ambled in the green pastures surrounding
the village. A brown cow chewed contentedly at a sheet hanging on a
line in a backyard. A small boy kicked a stone down the rutted lane.
Beyond that, Mac couldn’t find a single sign of industriousness.
    At home, there would be farm wagons and horses
traversing the street, men arguing on the tavern steps, women gossiping
on the walks as they strolled from shop to shop, and carters and smiths
and wheelwrights all going about their business. How in the name of
heaven did this backwater survive?
    He’d hoped to find someone who could help him with
the children when it came time to sail, but he’d be lucky to find
someone who remembered what children were.
    Frustration gnawed at him as a bell pealed
desultorily in the church tower opposite the inn. A black-robed curate,