An Unsuitable Bride by Jane Feather Page B

the steward’s apologetic voice shocked them out of their absorption.
    “Sir Stephen was wondering if you’d be joining them for breakfast, Mr. Sullivan. The trout is fresh from the kitchen.”
    “Oh, yes . . . yes, of course.” Reluctantly, Perry raised his head from the book. “I hadn’t realized the time.” He stepped back and bowed to Mistress Hathaway. “Forgive me, ma’am, I have taken up too much of your time, but thank you for sharing these with me. May I visit you again? I’m sure there are treasures aplenty to view.”
    “Indeed there are, sir,” she said with a formal curtsy. “Of course, you should feel free to use the library whenever you wish. You are Sir Stephen’s guest.”
    Gone was the sparkle, gone the glow to her complexion. She was suddenly as plain, dull, and mousy as she had ever been. He nodded with a brief smile and left her to her papers and her volumes, returning to the lively gathering in the hall.
    Alexandra sat for a long time behind the desk, staring into the middle distance. She was unnerved, unsettled, uneasy. Afraid she had let something slip in her pleasure in sharing her passion. And what a pleasure it had been. She could still feel the sense of his body as they had stood so close together turning the pages.She could still smell the faint aroma of lavender from his shirt, the slight tang of fresh sweat on his skin, the morning’s freshness on his cheek.
    Sweet heaven, she hadn’t thought it would be so difficult to maintain the charade. And indeed, it hadn’t been until the Honorable Peregrine Sullivan had walked into the house.
    She had anticipated many of the difficulties with this game she was playing and had thought she was ready to deal with anything that came up. But she hadn’t anticipated the loneliness. She could never let down her guard long enough for any meaningful contacts with the people around her. Everything had to be superficial; she could permit herself only the most banal of conversational exchanges, revealing nothing at all about herself, not even her likes and dislikes, in case she slipped up. As a result, she felt as if she were living in solitary confinement, locked inside her own head.
    She missed Sylvia dreadfully. She and her sister had been inseparable companions from earliest childhood. Only eleven months separated them, and in many ways, they were more like twins than regular siblings. Their mother paid little attention to them even when she was in residence, and soon after Sylvia’s birth, she had started on her series of romantic escapades that had culminated in the elopement with the mysterious Italian count.
    Alexandra still vividly remembered one fight she had overheard between her parents, soon after Sylvia’sninth birthday. Their mother had just reappeared after three months’ absence, laden as always with gifts for her “precious girls,” as she insisted upon calling them. And on this occasion, her husband had received her with open anger instead of his usual apparent indifference.
    Alex had been curled in her habitual corner of the library sofa, struggling with a book of Latin verse. At first, she had felt a frisson of guilty excitement at eavesdropping on her parents, but as their voices had risen and the angry, hurtful words buzzed like wasps in the usually tranquil room, she had become alarmed and then terrified that they might discover her.
    Their mother had made it clear that she couldn’t stand the peace of the countryside, absolutely refused to become pregnant again—pregnancy and childbirth had nearly ruined her body. She needed the attention she could still command, and who would deny her the right to take what life offered her? She could still inflame a man, and no one could blame her for taking advantage of her gifts, since her husband had no interest in them. All he wanted was a brood mare and a housekeeper, and she had no intention of servicing him in either capacity.
    At the time, Alex hadn’t understood all of