like a bee to the lucrative honey pot with his lisping compliments.
“M’—m’dear, you are a breath of fresh spring air this fair morn,” he said, affectedly forming his body into the perfectly required serpentine S. He drew her hand into his own. The wax padding he wore braced underneath his coat cracked audibly from the sudden strain.
“ Là, you must show me the newest addition to your garden, Lady O’Brien. ’Tis been bandied about that you’ve added those dear little flowers from the Netherlands. Even my ward has asked if she mightn’t pay a call in order to see them. But knowing that you did not wish to be troubled, I told her firmly no.”
“But you shouldn’t have, Squire Lynch. I’d have been delighted to show them to young Mistress Kathleen. You must tell her when you see her next that she is always the bienvenue at Brightwood. Faith, I do find her youthful company to be most pleasant and refreshing.”
She smiled brightly, all the while grimly remembering his young ward’s sad face. Although an heiress, young Mistress Kathleen Dargheen, seemed beggarly as far as familial affections were concerned. The village gossipmongers had long ago noted the sad fact that Squire Lynch had appointed himself the orphaned child’s guardian only so that he might try and squander away his ward’s fortune before she reached her majority. The dreadful unfeeling man was sure to ruin the lass’s future.
She herself had met the child at a soiree held at the squire’s home. She recalled a pretty child with silky, honey-colored hair and a pair of china blue eyes looking sadly out at the world, silently proclaiming to all and sundry her dismal state of neglect. Even the faded silk bonnet tied around her tiny chin bespoke of her greedy uncle’s evident uncaring negligence of her. Immediately, she’d felt a certain kinship with the heiress. She knew herself what it felt like to be only wanted for one’s money and not for one’s self. She tried, therefore, to show kindness to the child as often as possible.
Lynch interrupted her thoughts, audaciously squeezing her captured hand. She took a shallow breath, resisting the more natural urge to slap him. Indeed, men like the squire were becoming increasingly more and more tiresome. Taking up her valuable time with their romantic nonsense, forcing her to listen endlessly to their ridiculous odes to her dark eyebrows and long raven hair.
The most dreaded of all these admirers, however, had to be the overzealous singers who frequently caused her to lose a good night’s sleep. They, unfortunately, appeared regularly beneath her window, rain or shine, to sing in quivering trebled voices, dreadful ballads of undying love. Such untalented amorous screeching, assured to put her in a foul mood the next day, was probably the worst part about being a wealthy spinster. The last troubadour who’d had the audacity to wake her up in the middle of the night, had inspired her father, Lord Patrick, to deal with him himself. So disgusted was he with the grating noise of the singer, he’d thrown the entire contents of his chamber pot down on the hapless head of the screeching gentleman below.
She shook her head with resignation and carefully removed her hand from the Squire’s clammy grasp.
Faith, if only her great aunt had left her very small fortune to her father, instead of her. But nay, the shrewd old bat had bequeathed all her earthly riches to her strong-headed, but nonetheless beloved, niece.
“Undoubtedly foreseeing what a bumble-broth it would create,” she muttered under her breath in an exasperated sigh.
“What did you say, m’dear?”
“The um—flowers are over here.” And she led him to a bed of tulips.
She had sent for the bulbs directly from Amsterdam herself. They were one of the few delights her wealth had brought. The bright petals of red, yellow, and white bobbed in the wind creating a colorful display for all to enjoy.
“These are my favorites. Such
“M’—m’dear, you are a breath of fresh spring air this fair morn,” he said, affectedly forming his body into the perfectly required serpentine S. He drew her hand into his own. The wax padding he wore braced underneath his coat cracked audibly from the sudden strain.
“ Là, you must show me the newest addition to your garden, Lady O’Brien. ’Tis been bandied about that you’ve added those dear little flowers from the Netherlands. Even my ward has asked if she mightn’t pay a call in order to see them. But knowing that you did not wish to be troubled, I told her firmly no.”
“But you shouldn’t have, Squire Lynch. I’d have been delighted to show them to young Mistress Kathleen. You must tell her when you see her next that she is always the bienvenue at Brightwood. Faith, I do find her youthful company to be most pleasant and refreshing.”
She smiled brightly, all the while grimly remembering his young ward’s sad face. Although an heiress, young Mistress Kathleen Dargheen, seemed beggarly as far as familial affections were concerned. The village gossipmongers had long ago noted the sad fact that Squire Lynch had appointed himself the orphaned child’s guardian only so that he might try and squander away his ward’s fortune before she reached her majority. The dreadful unfeeling man was sure to ruin the lass’s future.
She herself had met the child at a soiree held at the squire’s home. She recalled a pretty child with silky, honey-colored hair and a pair of china blue eyes looking sadly out at the world, silently proclaiming to all and sundry her dismal state of neglect. Even the faded silk bonnet tied around her tiny chin bespoke of her greedy uncle’s evident uncaring negligence of her. Immediately, she’d felt a certain kinship with the heiress. She knew herself what it felt like to be only wanted for one’s money and not for one’s self. She tried, therefore, to show kindness to the child as often as possible.
Lynch interrupted her thoughts, audaciously squeezing her captured hand. She took a shallow breath, resisting the more natural urge to slap him. Indeed, men like the squire were becoming increasingly more and more tiresome. Taking up her valuable time with their romantic nonsense, forcing her to listen endlessly to their ridiculous odes to her dark eyebrows and long raven hair.
The most dreaded of all these admirers, however, had to be the overzealous singers who frequently caused her to lose a good night’s sleep. They, unfortunately, appeared regularly beneath her window, rain or shine, to sing in quivering trebled voices, dreadful ballads of undying love. Such untalented amorous screeching, assured to put her in a foul mood the next day, was probably the worst part about being a wealthy spinster. The last troubadour who’d had the audacity to wake her up in the middle of the night, had inspired her father, Lord Patrick, to deal with him himself. So disgusted was he with the grating noise of the singer, he’d thrown the entire contents of his chamber pot down on the hapless head of the screeching gentleman below.
She shook her head with resignation and carefully removed her hand from the Squire’s clammy grasp.
Faith, if only her great aunt had left her very small fortune to her father, instead of her. But nay, the shrewd old bat had bequeathed all her earthly riches to her strong-headed, but nonetheless beloved, niece.
“Undoubtedly foreseeing what a bumble-broth it would create,” she muttered under her breath in an exasperated sigh.
“What did you say, m’dear?”
“The um—flowers are over here.” And she led him to a bed of tulips.
She had sent for the bulbs directly from Amsterdam herself. They were one of the few delights her wealth had brought. The bright petals of red, yellow, and white bobbed in the wind creating a colorful display for all to enjoy.
“These are my favorites. Such
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