hands. “Here. Read. When we come upon something that brought them together, we’ll mark it.”
Her eyes glittered. “We’ll write it all out. We’ll make it work.”
Part of Aurelia still objected, but it was a small part, and growing smaller. She opened the book and began to read. “A dark cloud covered the face of the gibbous moon as though to hide from mankind’s shocked sight the heinous deeds about to be perpetrated. Corrinne’s tender heart quivered ...”
Downstairs in his library, the Earl of Ranfield relaxed in a rosewood chair. His long legs stretched out in front of him, he contemplated the Turner landscape over the mantel. But he did not really see its brilliant recreations of sunlight and storm.
Those two upstairs had not been talking about ballooning when he chanced into the room. That little quiver of Phoebe’s bottom lip had always signaled falsehood. But what had they been discussing? And how had they so quickly become close?
He sighed. Better to ask some questions he could answer. Questions of himself. Why, for instance, had the coming of Aurelia Amesley made such a difference in his life? It had been a reasonably content life—besides the work of his estate, he’d had the theater, the balls, the pretty ladies—dark willowy ladies with classic features. And life had been pleasant with all its little fripperies. Of course, he hadn’t considered them fripperies, then. Before Aurelia Amesley came along, disturbing everything.
She was such a sobersides, so serious-minded. Always thinking about air flight. She was short and fair, and her features, though pleasant enough, were far from classic. She didn’t flatter him. Or coo at him. Or practice any of the feminine arts on him. In sober fact she treated him exactly as she did her cousin. Or her uncle. Why then did having her around make him feel younger, smarter, happier ...?
He muttered a curse. He’d better find out. And soon. His messenger would have reached London by now. And, unless he much missed his guess, Harold and his father would shortly be arriving at the estate.
They would load up their beloved balloon, put Aurelia and her injured ankle in a carriage, and make a rapid return to London. And he would be left behind—a most unhappy man.
He leapt to his feet and began pacing the patterned Persian rug. Obviously, the return trip to London must be delayed. He couldn’t let her go back there—not yet. Not until he had discovered ...
Discovered what? He’d only known the chit a few days. She was a merchant’s daughter, not of the ton, ill equipped to live in it. Even more ill equipped man Mama had been. She was not a proper wife for an earl. Not at all.
Muttering another choice expression, he kicked the fireplace fender. Damnation! What did he care about the likes and dislikes of the ton ? About what was proper? He’d always done as he pleased. And if he ever actually contemplated getting leg-shackled, it would be to a woman he could countenance living with—and loving. What the ton said didn’t matter.
He turned and paced the other direction. Wasn’t he a man of some intelligence? Why then, he would find a way to keep them in Dover. At least until he had discovered whether or not Aurelia Amesley was the one.
He smiled and turned toward the door. The place to start was the balloon. He would go have a look at it.
Chapter Six
By Sunday afternoon the inhabitants of the Dover estate had each made plans for the future. Cousin Prudence had marshaled a vast array of Scripture explicitly designed to point out to Aurelia Amesley the error of her ways in regard to air flight and was waiting only for the opportune moment to launch her campaign.
The Earl, having put his mind to the task at hand, had spent the previous day supervising the cleaning and refurbishing of an old shed and sending out messengers in sundry directions.
And Aurelia and Phoebe, their quills busily scratching, had read and reread The Dark Stranger and
Her eyes glittered. “We’ll write it all out. We’ll make it work.”
Part of Aurelia still objected, but it was a small part, and growing smaller. She opened the book and began to read. “A dark cloud covered the face of the gibbous moon as though to hide from mankind’s shocked sight the heinous deeds about to be perpetrated. Corrinne’s tender heart quivered ...”
Downstairs in his library, the Earl of Ranfield relaxed in a rosewood chair. His long legs stretched out in front of him, he contemplated the Turner landscape over the mantel. But he did not really see its brilliant recreations of sunlight and storm.
Those two upstairs had not been talking about ballooning when he chanced into the room. That little quiver of Phoebe’s bottom lip had always signaled falsehood. But what had they been discussing? And how had they so quickly become close?
He sighed. Better to ask some questions he could answer. Questions of himself. Why, for instance, had the coming of Aurelia Amesley made such a difference in his life? It had been a reasonably content life—besides the work of his estate, he’d had the theater, the balls, the pretty ladies—dark willowy ladies with classic features. And life had been pleasant with all its little fripperies. Of course, he hadn’t considered them fripperies, then. Before Aurelia Amesley came along, disturbing everything.
She was such a sobersides, so serious-minded. Always thinking about air flight. She was short and fair, and her features, though pleasant enough, were far from classic. She didn’t flatter him. Or coo at him. Or practice any of the feminine arts on him. In sober fact she treated him exactly as she did her cousin. Or her uncle. Why then did having her around make him feel younger, smarter, happier ...?
He muttered a curse. He’d better find out. And soon. His messenger would have reached London by now. And, unless he much missed his guess, Harold and his father would shortly be arriving at the estate.
They would load up their beloved balloon, put Aurelia and her injured ankle in a carriage, and make a rapid return to London. And he would be left behind—a most unhappy man.
He leapt to his feet and began pacing the patterned Persian rug. Obviously, the return trip to London must be delayed. He couldn’t let her go back there—not yet. Not until he had discovered ...
Discovered what? He’d only known the chit a few days. She was a merchant’s daughter, not of the ton, ill equipped to live in it. Even more ill equipped man Mama had been. She was not a proper wife for an earl. Not at all.
Muttering another choice expression, he kicked the fireplace fender. Damnation! What did he care about the likes and dislikes of the ton ? About what was proper? He’d always done as he pleased. And if he ever actually contemplated getting leg-shackled, it would be to a woman he could countenance living with—and loving. What the ton said didn’t matter.
He turned and paced the other direction. Wasn’t he a man of some intelligence? Why then, he would find a way to keep them in Dover. At least until he had discovered whether or not Aurelia Amesley was the one.
He smiled and turned toward the door. The place to start was the balloon. He would go have a look at it.
Chapter Six
By Sunday afternoon the inhabitants of the Dover estate had each made plans for the future. Cousin Prudence had marshaled a vast array of Scripture explicitly designed to point out to Aurelia Amesley the error of her ways in regard to air flight and was waiting only for the opportune moment to launch her campaign.
The Earl, having put his mind to the task at hand, had spent the previous day supervising the cleaning and refurbishing of an old shed and sending out messengers in sundry directions.
And Aurelia and Phoebe, their quills busily scratching, had read and reread The Dark Stranger and
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