Marcus continued. “And allow me to say how agreeable your return to Stony Cross Park is.”
“Oh, my lord,” Mercedes trilled, “we are sovery delighted to stay at yourmagnificent estate once again!
And as to this afternoon—we thought nothing of your absence, other than to acknowledge that an important man like you, with so many concerns and responsibilities, must find innumerable demands made upon your time.” One of her arms gestured in a way that reminded Marcus of the movements of a praying mantis. “Ah—I see my two lovely girls standing right over there—” Her voice raised even higher as she called to them, and motioned sharply for them to come to her. “Girls!Girls, look whom I’ve found.
Come talk to Lord Westcliff!”
Marcus kept his face expressionless as he saw the raised brows of a few people standing nearby.
Glancing in the direction of Mercedes’s rapid gesticulations, he saw the Bowman sisters, who were both transformed from the dusty imps playing behind the stable yards earlier in the day. His gaze latched on to Lillian, who was dressed in a pale green gown, the bodice of which seemed to be held up only by a pair of little gold clips at the shoulders. Before he could control the direction of his wayward thoughts, he imagined detaching those clips and letting the green silk fall away from the creamy pale skin of her chest and shoulders—
Marcus dragged his gaze up to Lillian’s face. Her shining sable hair was pinned neatly atop her head in an intricate mass that looked nearly too heavy for her slender neck to support. With her hair drawn completely away from her forehead, her eyes appeared more catlike than usual. As she looked back at Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
him, a faint blush colored the crests of her cheeks, and she dipped her chin in a cautious nod. It was obvious that the last thing she wanted was to cross the room to them—to him—and Marcus could not blame her.
“There is no need to summon your daughters, Mrs. Bowman,” he murmured. “They are enjoying the company of their friends.”
“Their friends,” Mercedes exclaimed scornfully. “If you mean that scandalous Annabelle Hunt, I can assure you that I do not condone—”
“I have come to hold Mrs. Hunt in the highest regard,” Marcus said, giving the woman a level stare.
Taken aback by the pronouncement, Mercedes paled a little and hastily reversed herself. “If you, with yoursuperior judgment, have chosen to esteem Mrs. Hunt, then I must certainly concur, my lord. In fact, I have always thought—”
“Westcliff,” Thomas Bowman interrupted, having little interest in the subject of his daughters or whom they had befriended, “when will we have an opportunity to discuss the business matters that were brought up in our last correspondence?”
“Tomorrow, if you like,” Marcus replied. “We’ve organized an early morning ride, followed by breakfast.”
“I will forgo the ride, but I will see you at breakfast.”
They shook hands, and Marcus took his leave of them with a shallow bow, turning to converse with other guests who sought his attention. Soon a newcomer joined the group, and they quickly made room for the diminutive figure of Georgiana, Lady Westcliff…Marcus’s mother. She was heavily powdered, her silvery hair elaborately coiffured, and her wrists, neck, and ears heavily ornamented with brilliant jewels. Even her cane sparkled, the gilded handle paved with inset diamonds.
Some elderly women affected a crusty exterior but harbored a heart of gold underneath. The Countess of Westcliff was not one of those women. Her heart—the existence of which was highly arguable—was definitely not made of gold, or any remotely malleable substance. Physically speaking, the countess was not a beauty, nor had she ever been. If one were to replace her expensive garments with a plain broadcloth dress and apron, she would easily have been mistaken for an
“Oh, my lord,” Mercedes trilled, “we are sovery delighted to stay at yourmagnificent estate once again!
And as to this afternoon—we thought nothing of your absence, other than to acknowledge that an important man like you, with so many concerns and responsibilities, must find innumerable demands made upon your time.” One of her arms gestured in a way that reminded Marcus of the movements of a praying mantis. “Ah—I see my two lovely girls standing right over there—” Her voice raised even higher as she called to them, and motioned sharply for them to come to her. “Girls!Girls, look whom I’ve found.
Come talk to Lord Westcliff!”
Marcus kept his face expressionless as he saw the raised brows of a few people standing nearby.
Glancing in the direction of Mercedes’s rapid gesticulations, he saw the Bowman sisters, who were both transformed from the dusty imps playing behind the stable yards earlier in the day. His gaze latched on to Lillian, who was dressed in a pale green gown, the bodice of which seemed to be held up only by a pair of little gold clips at the shoulders. Before he could control the direction of his wayward thoughts, he imagined detaching those clips and letting the green silk fall away from the creamy pale skin of her chest and shoulders—
Marcus dragged his gaze up to Lillian’s face. Her shining sable hair was pinned neatly atop her head in an intricate mass that looked nearly too heavy for her slender neck to support. With her hair drawn completely away from her forehead, her eyes appeared more catlike than usual. As she looked back at Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
him, a faint blush colored the crests of her cheeks, and she dipped her chin in a cautious nod. It was obvious that the last thing she wanted was to cross the room to them—to him—and Marcus could not blame her.
“There is no need to summon your daughters, Mrs. Bowman,” he murmured. “They are enjoying the company of their friends.”
“Their friends,” Mercedes exclaimed scornfully. “If you mean that scandalous Annabelle Hunt, I can assure you that I do not condone—”
“I have come to hold Mrs. Hunt in the highest regard,” Marcus said, giving the woman a level stare.
Taken aback by the pronouncement, Mercedes paled a little and hastily reversed herself. “If you, with yoursuperior judgment, have chosen to esteem Mrs. Hunt, then I must certainly concur, my lord. In fact, I have always thought—”
“Westcliff,” Thomas Bowman interrupted, having little interest in the subject of his daughters or whom they had befriended, “when will we have an opportunity to discuss the business matters that were brought up in our last correspondence?”
“Tomorrow, if you like,” Marcus replied. “We’ve organized an early morning ride, followed by breakfast.”
“I will forgo the ride, but I will see you at breakfast.”
They shook hands, and Marcus took his leave of them with a shallow bow, turning to converse with other guests who sought his attention. Soon a newcomer joined the group, and they quickly made room for the diminutive figure of Georgiana, Lady Westcliff…Marcus’s mother. She was heavily powdered, her silvery hair elaborately coiffured, and her wrists, neck, and ears heavily ornamented with brilliant jewels. Even her cane sparkled, the gilded handle paved with inset diamonds.
Some elderly women affected a crusty exterior but harbored a heart of gold underneath. The Countess of Westcliff was not one of those women. Her heart—the existence of which was highly arguable—was definitely not made of gold, or any remotely malleable substance. Physically speaking, the countess was not a beauty, nor had she ever been. If one were to replace her expensive garments with a plain broadcloth dress and apron, she would easily have been mistaken for an
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