Tempting Mr. Weatherstone: A Wallflower Wedding Novella (Originally Appeared in the E-Book Anthology FIVE GOLDEN RINGS) by Vivienne Lorret Page A
Authors: Vivienne Lorret
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her father. “Some people do, I suppose, while others . . . don’t.” A fact that had taken her years to discover.
She sighed again, troubled by the turn of her thoughts. She didn’t want to marry, so what was she going on about?
Perhaps it was the aftereffects of her sister’s visit. Yes. That must be it. She’d been so busy lately that she hadn’t had a spare moment to breathe. All she needed was a bit of fresh air and to settle herself, once again, into the life she had chosen.
“I’m going for a walk,” she announced, knowing it didn’t matter one way or the other.
As if to prove it, her father merely murmured.
Outside, the bracing early-December wind caused her to rethink her walk. The streets were damp and muddy from rain, and the sky was a gloomy gray that matched her mood. The persistent chill that had plagued her for days now turned icy. She felt cold to the marrow of her bones.
A blanket over her lap and a steaming pot of tea on a side table beckoned her. Yet the vision was far too depressing. If she went back inside at this moment, she could easily imagine herself remaining there. Not simply for today, but for a lifetime.
A horrible specter of herself, sitting in a chair by the fire with her needlework in her lap, loomed before her. She would grow old there. Perhaps not in that chair, but in a chair by some fire, her hands slowly wrinkling and curling from age.
That could easily become her life from this point forward if she returned to 7 Danbury Lane.
In fact, the thought of returning to the quiet house and the murmured acknowledgments of her father terrified her.
The wind picked up, blowing hard against her back. At this time of year, few of their circle remained in town, so this street was practically deserted. Only one other family remained on this side of the lane. Her gaze settled on a door nearly as familiar as her own. Number 3.
The notion of disturbing Ethan Weatherstone’s morning solitude banished the horrible specter, at least for the moment. In fact, the idea sparked a bit of warmth in her. Besides, she had one of her latest needlework creations in her pocket, and his mother would be glad to have it.
Mind made up, she walked briskly down the street, up the stairs, and just before she could rap on the door, it swung open.
Hinkley, with his usual severe, unmovable expression, stood aside for her to enter. “He’s in the library, Miss Rutledge.”
“Thank you, Hinkley. Your soothsaying abilities never cease to astound me,” she said with a smile as she handed over her cloak. One of these days, she’d manage to surprise him.
Unruffled, he bowed. “Happy to be of service, miss.”
As Hinkley predicted, Ethan was in the library. His morning routine never faltered. There he sat, quill in hand, ledger of accounts open while writing figures in a column. The top of his desk was neat and orderly, nothing out of place. His chair never sat at an angle, but four legs on the floor, in precisely the same direction as the legs of his desk. As usual, his cravat was tied into a perfect knot. The line of his coat, equally perfect. His posture . . . perfect.
In anyone else, these particularities would make her feel entirely inadequate, what with her many flaws—freckles and fidgeting at the very top of the list—but with Ethan, she managed to overlook them. Perhaps it was because his hair was the color of walnut shells and had an unruly wave through it. She knew he hated it, and for that reason alone she found it oddly endearing. His eyes were that way, too. He’d referred to them as muddy. But she thought they looked more like the dregs of tea, sort of a clear, paler brown, with flecks of darker brown strewn about.
In profile, his nose was straight and true. Yet, from the front, there was a slight bend from when he’d fallen as a child. His teeth weren’t perfect either, white but not straight. In fact, she would say he had a rather wolfish smile, his canine teeth slightly too long
She sighed again, troubled by the turn of her thoughts. She didn’t want to marry, so what was she going on about?
Perhaps it was the aftereffects of her sister’s visit. Yes. That must be it. She’d been so busy lately that she hadn’t had a spare moment to breathe. All she needed was a bit of fresh air and to settle herself, once again, into the life she had chosen.
“I’m going for a walk,” she announced, knowing it didn’t matter one way or the other.
As if to prove it, her father merely murmured.
Outside, the bracing early-December wind caused her to rethink her walk. The streets were damp and muddy from rain, and the sky was a gloomy gray that matched her mood. The persistent chill that had plagued her for days now turned icy. She felt cold to the marrow of her bones.
A blanket over her lap and a steaming pot of tea on a side table beckoned her. Yet the vision was far too depressing. If she went back inside at this moment, she could easily imagine herself remaining there. Not simply for today, but for a lifetime.
A horrible specter of herself, sitting in a chair by the fire with her needlework in her lap, loomed before her. She would grow old there. Perhaps not in that chair, but in a chair by some fire, her hands slowly wrinkling and curling from age.
That could easily become her life from this point forward if she returned to 7 Danbury Lane.
In fact, the thought of returning to the quiet house and the murmured acknowledgments of her father terrified her.
The wind picked up, blowing hard against her back. At this time of year, few of their circle remained in town, so this street was practically deserted. Only one other family remained on this side of the lane. Her gaze settled on a door nearly as familiar as her own. Number 3.
The notion of disturbing Ethan Weatherstone’s morning solitude banished the horrible specter, at least for the moment. In fact, the idea sparked a bit of warmth in her. Besides, she had one of her latest needlework creations in her pocket, and his mother would be glad to have it.
Mind made up, she walked briskly down the street, up the stairs, and just before she could rap on the door, it swung open.
Hinkley, with his usual severe, unmovable expression, stood aside for her to enter. “He’s in the library, Miss Rutledge.”
“Thank you, Hinkley. Your soothsaying abilities never cease to astound me,” she said with a smile as she handed over her cloak. One of these days, she’d manage to surprise him.
Unruffled, he bowed. “Happy to be of service, miss.”
As Hinkley predicted, Ethan was in the library. His morning routine never faltered. There he sat, quill in hand, ledger of accounts open while writing figures in a column. The top of his desk was neat and orderly, nothing out of place. His chair never sat at an angle, but four legs on the floor, in precisely the same direction as the legs of his desk. As usual, his cravat was tied into a perfect knot. The line of his coat, equally perfect. His posture . . . perfect.
In anyone else, these particularities would make her feel entirely inadequate, what with her many flaws—freckles and fidgeting at the very top of the list—but with Ethan, she managed to overlook them. Perhaps it was because his hair was the color of walnut shells and had an unruly wave through it. She knew he hated it, and for that reason alone she found it oddly endearing. His eyes were that way, too. He’d referred to them as muddy. But she thought they looked more like the dregs of tea, sort of a clear, paler brown, with flecks of darker brown strewn about.
In profile, his nose was straight and true. Yet, from the front, there was a slight bend from when he’d fallen as a child. His teeth weren’t perfect either, white but not straight. In fact, she would say he had a rather wolfish smile, his canine teeth slightly too long
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