Street.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“Not in so many words. But he hinted that Harry was…making promises about my future.”
Augustina swore under her breath. “The bastard.”
The oath made Eliza feel a tad more cheerful. Brighton had struck her as a thoroughly dirty dish during the times he had visited the Abbey. That he and the odious Mr. Pearce were cousins only confirmed her intuitive reaction.
“The bastard,” she echoed, finding that saying it aloud helped loosen the knot in her chest.
“Come, let us continue this discussion outdoors, where the breeze will dispel the noxious fumes formed by mention of that smarmy man’s name.” Augustina rose and began to gather up the plates. “I think better when I am wielding my pruning shears.” Eyes narrowing to a martial squint, she added, “Never fear, we’ll figure out what to do.”
Chapter Six
A bump of the wheels jolted Gryff’s attention back to the road. “Damnation,” he growled, fisting the reins and guiding the horses through a tight bend. Despite trying to set his emotions on a straight line, he found his mood veering back and forth between self-loathing and self-serving excuses.
“For God’s sake, I didn’t despoil her innocence,” he muttered, playing the Devil’s Advocate. “She said herself that she had seen a penis before.”
Though her late husband had obviously not been very skilled in its use.
“That’s beside the point.” The snide observation prompted a snappish reply from his Better Half. “Your behavior was unworthy of a gentleman.”
A pause. “Who said I was a gentleman?”
The horses snorted and suddenly shied away from an overhanging branch, nearly knocking him off his perch.
“I’ve never claimed to be a saint, but that does not mean I have sunk to the depths of utter depravity.” The dialogue with his inner demon continued. “Without some code of honor, a man is no better than a slimy earthworm who dwells in the dank, dark dirt.”
The Devil had no clever retort.
“So if I wish to hold my head out of the mud, honor demands that I face Lady Brentford and offer my apologies, instead of crawling back to Town.”
Gryff listened for any rebuttal, but heard only the whistle of the wind. Swerving onto the grassy verge, he turned the phaeton around and flicked his whip over the heads of his startled pair of grays.
“Yes, yes, I know you fine fellows are confused,” he called, settling their skittish trot. “That makes three of us.”
An hour later, Gryff rolled into Harpden, where a few quick questions at one of the local shops elicited directions to a small cottage on the outskirts of town. Tying his team in the shade of a beech tree, he unlatched the wooden gate and, mustering his resolve, headed straight for the front door. It wasn’t as if he was going to face a firing squad—though the lady might be tempted to put a bullet through his ballocks.
Several knocks brought no response, so he stepped back to see if he could spot any movement through the upper windows. After coming all this way, he was loath to leave without speaking to Lady Brentford.
Meow.
The muffled sound seemed to be coming from behind the shutter of the attic dormer. A marmalade paw poked out from between the wooden slats.
Meow, meow.
“Why is it that felines choose to get themselves into trouble when I am near?” he grumbled. Another glance up showed that the heavy iron hinge holding the shutter in place had loosened and was wedged in the thatch.
The kitten’s cries were becoming fainter.
“Oh, blast.” Tugging off his coat and waistcoat, Gryff found a handhold on the age-blackened timbers and started to climb.
Charming as the snug little cottage appeared from afar, its weathered little quirks of character were not conducive to a quick ascent. His highly polished Hessians scrabbled over the rough-textured stucco, leaving streaks of whitewash on the dark leather, and the finespun linen of his shirt snagged in the
“Did he threaten you?”
“Not in so many words. But he hinted that Harry was…making promises about my future.”
Augustina swore under her breath. “The bastard.”
The oath made Eliza feel a tad more cheerful. Brighton had struck her as a thoroughly dirty dish during the times he had visited the Abbey. That he and the odious Mr. Pearce were cousins only confirmed her intuitive reaction.
“The bastard,” she echoed, finding that saying it aloud helped loosen the knot in her chest.
“Come, let us continue this discussion outdoors, where the breeze will dispel the noxious fumes formed by mention of that smarmy man’s name.” Augustina rose and began to gather up the plates. “I think better when I am wielding my pruning shears.” Eyes narrowing to a martial squint, she added, “Never fear, we’ll figure out what to do.”
Chapter Six
A bump of the wheels jolted Gryff’s attention back to the road. “Damnation,” he growled, fisting the reins and guiding the horses through a tight bend. Despite trying to set his emotions on a straight line, he found his mood veering back and forth between self-loathing and self-serving excuses.
“For God’s sake, I didn’t despoil her innocence,” he muttered, playing the Devil’s Advocate. “She said herself that she had seen a penis before.”
Though her late husband had obviously not been very skilled in its use.
“That’s beside the point.” The snide observation prompted a snappish reply from his Better Half. “Your behavior was unworthy of a gentleman.”
A pause. “Who said I was a gentleman?”
The horses snorted and suddenly shied away from an overhanging branch, nearly knocking him off his perch.
“I’ve never claimed to be a saint, but that does not mean I have sunk to the depths of utter depravity.” The dialogue with his inner demon continued. “Without some code of honor, a man is no better than a slimy earthworm who dwells in the dank, dark dirt.”
The Devil had no clever retort.
“So if I wish to hold my head out of the mud, honor demands that I face Lady Brentford and offer my apologies, instead of crawling back to Town.”
Gryff listened for any rebuttal, but heard only the whistle of the wind. Swerving onto the grassy verge, he turned the phaeton around and flicked his whip over the heads of his startled pair of grays.
“Yes, yes, I know you fine fellows are confused,” he called, settling their skittish trot. “That makes three of us.”
An hour later, Gryff rolled into Harpden, where a few quick questions at one of the local shops elicited directions to a small cottage on the outskirts of town. Tying his team in the shade of a beech tree, he unlatched the wooden gate and, mustering his resolve, headed straight for the front door. It wasn’t as if he was going to face a firing squad—though the lady might be tempted to put a bullet through his ballocks.
Several knocks brought no response, so he stepped back to see if he could spot any movement through the upper windows. After coming all this way, he was loath to leave without speaking to Lady Brentford.
Meow.
The muffled sound seemed to be coming from behind the shutter of the attic dormer. A marmalade paw poked out from between the wooden slats.
Meow, meow.
“Why is it that felines choose to get themselves into trouble when I am near?” he grumbled. Another glance up showed that the heavy iron hinge holding the shutter in place had loosened and was wedged in the thatch.
The kitten’s cries were becoming fainter.
“Oh, blast.” Tugging off his coat and waistcoat, Gryff found a handhold on the age-blackened timbers and started to climb.
Charming as the snug little cottage appeared from afar, its weathered little quirks of character were not conducive to a quick ascent. His highly polished Hessians scrabbled over the rough-textured stucco, leaving streaks of whitewash on the dark leather, and the finespun linen of his shirt snagged in the
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