she’d ever faced.
“Surely my arrogance is not the only thing you hold against me, Meg. I can think of any number of my sins that might give you pause for thought.”
Maeve heard the note of derisive laughter in Theo’s voice. Apparently the conceited fellow had such a good opinion of himself he found it impossible to take her criticism seriously.
“You’re right.” She smiled sweetly. “Enumerating the sins of a known rake would be like counting the fleas on a dog—an endless task. But since you are so insistent, I shall mention the one with which I’m most familiar—namely your deplorable treatment of poor Mrs. Whitcomb.”
“Ah yes, Sophie.” Theo sobered instantly. “I have given serious thought to our rather bizarre conversation last evening and I fear there may be some truth in what you said about her suffering the censure of the so-called proper ladies of the village because of her close friendship with me.”
He paused and drew a deep breath. He had never understood why papists derived such comfort from confessing their sins. He found the experience damned embarrassing. He was not accustomed to airing his feelings out loud to his closest male friends, much less a woman he scarcely knew.
But sometime in the middle of a sleepless night, he had come to the realization that there had been more truth than fiction in the extravagant prose with which he’d announced his engagement. It was beginning to look as if fate may indeed have provided him with the kind of woman he had unknowingly waited for all his life.
He had always had an uncanny instinct where women were concerned, and both that instinct and his equally astute common sense told him he could trust Meg Barrington implicitly. For how could a woman so openly honest and outspoken have a deceitful bone in her body?
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that the two of them had every chance of creating one of those rare marriages built on respect…and passion such as his friend, the Duke of Montford enjoyed with his commoner wife, Emily. Furthermore, the feisty little cat had already proved she was more than a match for his impossible mother—which boded well for his future peace of mind.
If renouncing his mistress and indulging in a little verbal soul-searching was the price he must pay to convince her that he was prime husband material, then so be it. Gritting his teeth, he prepared to make the speech he’d carefully rehearsed on the ride from Ravenswood.
“I have not yet determined how, but I must find a way to give Sophie back her respectability now that the nature of our friendship is altered by my pending marriage,” he said and was gratified to see a look of approval on his future bride’s face.
“Sophie is not terribly bright,” he continued, “but she is a generous, warm-hearted woman who has seen me through a difficult period. She should not be made to suffer for my lack of discretion.”
A generous, warm-hearted woman. The earl’s description of Sophie Whitcomb was a far cry from the vicar’s harsh condemnation of what he considered a “fallen woman.” Maeve studied the handsome features of the man who had just made such an amazingly humane observation, and found nothing in them to suggest he was being the least bit facetious. This was a new, compassionate side of the earl—one she found even more disquieting than his undisputed charm. The last thing she needed was to start liking the man.
He turned his head and surveyed her expectantly, apparently waiting for her to applaud his surprising turnabout face. She couldn’t bring herself to utter a word, though she was aware it could not have been easy for such a proud man to humble himself as he had. The very idea that her condemnation of him had caused him to go to such lengths to insure the success of a marriage she knew would never take place left her feeling sick with guilt. She, of all people, should have been the last one to hurl stones at another
“Surely my arrogance is not the only thing you hold against me, Meg. I can think of any number of my sins that might give you pause for thought.”
Maeve heard the note of derisive laughter in Theo’s voice. Apparently the conceited fellow had such a good opinion of himself he found it impossible to take her criticism seriously.
“You’re right.” She smiled sweetly. “Enumerating the sins of a known rake would be like counting the fleas on a dog—an endless task. But since you are so insistent, I shall mention the one with which I’m most familiar—namely your deplorable treatment of poor Mrs. Whitcomb.”
“Ah yes, Sophie.” Theo sobered instantly. “I have given serious thought to our rather bizarre conversation last evening and I fear there may be some truth in what you said about her suffering the censure of the so-called proper ladies of the village because of her close friendship with me.”
He paused and drew a deep breath. He had never understood why papists derived such comfort from confessing their sins. He found the experience damned embarrassing. He was not accustomed to airing his feelings out loud to his closest male friends, much less a woman he scarcely knew.
But sometime in the middle of a sleepless night, he had come to the realization that there had been more truth than fiction in the extravagant prose with which he’d announced his engagement. It was beginning to look as if fate may indeed have provided him with the kind of woman he had unknowingly waited for all his life.
He had always had an uncanny instinct where women were concerned, and both that instinct and his equally astute common sense told him he could trust Meg Barrington implicitly. For how could a woman so openly honest and outspoken have a deceitful bone in her body?
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that the two of them had every chance of creating one of those rare marriages built on respect…and passion such as his friend, the Duke of Montford enjoyed with his commoner wife, Emily. Furthermore, the feisty little cat had already proved she was more than a match for his impossible mother—which boded well for his future peace of mind.
If renouncing his mistress and indulging in a little verbal soul-searching was the price he must pay to convince her that he was prime husband material, then so be it. Gritting his teeth, he prepared to make the speech he’d carefully rehearsed on the ride from Ravenswood.
“I have not yet determined how, but I must find a way to give Sophie back her respectability now that the nature of our friendship is altered by my pending marriage,” he said and was gratified to see a look of approval on his future bride’s face.
“Sophie is not terribly bright,” he continued, “but she is a generous, warm-hearted woman who has seen me through a difficult period. She should not be made to suffer for my lack of discretion.”
A generous, warm-hearted woman. The earl’s description of Sophie Whitcomb was a far cry from the vicar’s harsh condemnation of what he considered a “fallen woman.” Maeve studied the handsome features of the man who had just made such an amazingly humane observation, and found nothing in them to suggest he was being the least bit facetious. This was a new, compassionate side of the earl—one she found even more disquieting than his undisputed charm. The last thing she needed was to start liking the man.
He turned his head and surveyed her expectantly, apparently waiting for her to applaud his surprising turnabout face. She couldn’t bring herself to utter a word, though she was aware it could not have been easy for such a proud man to humble himself as he had. The very idea that her condemnation of him had caused him to go to such lengths to insure the success of a marriage she knew would never take place left her feeling sick with guilt. She, of all people, should have been the last one to hurl stones at another
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