bribe had only strengthened her determination to wed Peregrine.
If only she could be sure that such a step would not alienate the earl from his son, she mused, watching Lady Sarah shake her head in response to Peregrine's question. Athena's worst fear was that she would be the cause of a second violent disagreement between a father and a son. It was far too late to remedy the damage she had innocently caused between John and his father, the late Earl of Wentworth, who had gone to his grave unrelenting in his anger towards his youngest son. Her darling John had joined his father two years ago now, and Athena firmly believed that they had made their peace beyond the grave.
But Peregrine was still such a boy, she thought. An adorable, innocent, and naive boy, so obviously devoted to his father. How could she bare to sunder that sweet bond of love that joined them? Too well she remembered the pain and shock of her own estrangement from her father following his unexpected marriage to his Brighton widow. The new Lady Rothingham had cut Athena off not only from her childhood home and her father's love, but from that sense of belonging to a place in time that contained all her most treasured memories.
She could not— would not, if it came to a choice—do that to Peregrine. He was so young, almost a child in many ways, Athena thought nostalgically, wishing—as she so often did— that the viscount were ten years older. But then he would not be the Peregrine she knew and loved, she reminded herself, and he would never have offered her the security of marriage.
A shadow seemed to touch her briefly, and Athena shuddered. She had always enjoyed being a wife, and had begun to despair of ever having a home and husband of her own again. And more children. She had grown alarmed and disillusioned at the number of offers she received from London gentlemen only concerned with their own pleasure.
And then she had met Peregrine by the river that sultry afternoon last spring.
His naive adulation had seemed amusing at first, she remembered, and infinitely touching. Until he had made his first offer of marriage.
She had laughed at the absurdity of such a notion. When he had persisted, Athena had felt the first tug of temptation. She thought of the many sleepless nights she had spent weighing the disadvantages of such an unequal union. And, of course, the benefits.
"Mama!" The shrill voice of her daughter jerked Athena back to the present. "Perry says I cannot have a currant tart until I have eaten my bread and jam."
"Young ladies do not shout, dear." She glanced around the group seated under the trees, pushing her doubts to the back of her mind. "And Peregrine is quite right. Bread and jam comes first, and if you behave, Lady Sarah may allow you to have one tart."
"Only one?" Penelope turned her wide blue gaze on their hostess and Athena distinctly saw a roguish smile tug at the corner of her daughter's mouth. "And if I am extra extra good?" she added tentatively, in a wheedling voice, "might I have two, my lady?"
Athena held her breath at the audacity of her child, but before she could censure her, Lady Sarah's caustic voice cut into her thoughts.
"Only if you promise never again to scream in my ear, child," her ladyship said sharply. "As I am always telling Peregrine, I am not yet at my last prayers." She cast a glowering look at the culprit, who seemed not the least cowed by this display of displeasure.
"Do you pray a lot, my lady?"
The awkward silence that followed this artless question was broken by a crack of laughter from Peregrine, who made no attempt to hide his amusement when his aunt threw him a blistering look.
"That will do, young man," she snapped, although Athena was convinced she caught a gleam of humor in the old dragon's eyes. "Come, Mrs. Standish," her ladyship continued briskly, "do not sit there gawking, girl. Make yourself useful and pour the tea for us."
Surprised and pleased at this flattering request to
If only she could be sure that such a step would not alienate the earl from his son, she mused, watching Lady Sarah shake her head in response to Peregrine's question. Athena's worst fear was that she would be the cause of a second violent disagreement between a father and a son. It was far too late to remedy the damage she had innocently caused between John and his father, the late Earl of Wentworth, who had gone to his grave unrelenting in his anger towards his youngest son. Her darling John had joined his father two years ago now, and Athena firmly believed that they had made their peace beyond the grave.
But Peregrine was still such a boy, she thought. An adorable, innocent, and naive boy, so obviously devoted to his father. How could she bare to sunder that sweet bond of love that joined them? Too well she remembered the pain and shock of her own estrangement from her father following his unexpected marriage to his Brighton widow. The new Lady Rothingham had cut Athena off not only from her childhood home and her father's love, but from that sense of belonging to a place in time that contained all her most treasured memories.
She could not— would not, if it came to a choice—do that to Peregrine. He was so young, almost a child in many ways, Athena thought nostalgically, wishing—as she so often did— that the viscount were ten years older. But then he would not be the Peregrine she knew and loved, she reminded herself, and he would never have offered her the security of marriage.
A shadow seemed to touch her briefly, and Athena shuddered. She had always enjoyed being a wife, and had begun to despair of ever having a home and husband of her own again. And more children. She had grown alarmed and disillusioned at the number of offers she received from London gentlemen only concerned with their own pleasure.
And then she had met Peregrine by the river that sultry afternoon last spring.
His naive adulation had seemed amusing at first, she remembered, and infinitely touching. Until he had made his first offer of marriage.
She had laughed at the absurdity of such a notion. When he had persisted, Athena had felt the first tug of temptation. She thought of the many sleepless nights she had spent weighing the disadvantages of such an unequal union. And, of course, the benefits.
"Mama!" The shrill voice of her daughter jerked Athena back to the present. "Perry says I cannot have a currant tart until I have eaten my bread and jam."
"Young ladies do not shout, dear." She glanced around the group seated under the trees, pushing her doubts to the back of her mind. "And Peregrine is quite right. Bread and jam comes first, and if you behave, Lady Sarah may allow you to have one tart."
"Only one?" Penelope turned her wide blue gaze on their hostess and Athena distinctly saw a roguish smile tug at the corner of her daughter's mouth. "And if I am extra extra good?" she added tentatively, in a wheedling voice, "might I have two, my lady?"
Athena held her breath at the audacity of her child, but before she could censure her, Lady Sarah's caustic voice cut into her thoughts.
"Only if you promise never again to scream in my ear, child," her ladyship said sharply. "As I am always telling Peregrine, I am not yet at my last prayers." She cast a glowering look at the culprit, who seemed not the least cowed by this display of displeasure.
"Do you pray a lot, my lady?"
The awkward silence that followed this artless question was broken by a crack of laughter from Peregrine, who made no attempt to hide his amusement when his aunt threw him a blistering look.
"That will do, young man," she snapped, although Athena was convinced she caught a gleam of humor in the old dragon's eyes. "Come, Mrs. Standish," her ladyship continued briskly, "do not sit there gawking, girl. Make yourself useful and pour the tea for us."
Surprised and pleased at this flattering request to
Similar Books
