ordered about by some schoolgirl. "My folly is not a tourist vista."
"Actually it is," she had the nerve to say. Turning to Pippin, she said, "Cousin, do you have the guidebook?"
Pippin nodded and handed over a thick leather-bound tome. "The description is on page seventy-four."
His all-too-determined and unwanted guest thumbed through the book until she came to the page, then she handed the entire thing over to him. "If you please, my lord, read what Mr. Billingsworth says."
She pointed at a passage and looked at him with such a sweet, compelling look that he found himself, against his better nature, reading the text.
Albin's Folly is a spectacular example of classical architecture and should not be missed by any traveler intrepid enough to venture into such a lonely reach of the Sussex coastline. Lady Josephine Tremont, the owner of Thistleton Park, is a fine hostess and all too willing to entertain guests. Though some view her as eccentric, this author knows from firsthand experience, she is a rare and charming lady who loves nothing more than to regale visitors with local histories and…
The passage continued on at great length, but he had neither the time nor the patience to read such nonsense.
Lady Josephine's charms, indeed! What was it about his aunt that had left every man between the ages of fifty and one hundred blathering on about her as if she were some octogenarian Venus?
"Miss?…" he said to the girl before him.
"Miss Felicity Langley, my lord," she replied very properly. Then she nodded over her shoulder, "My sister, Miss Thalia Langley, and my cousin, Lady Philippa Knolles."
"Yes, nice to make your acquaintance, but I have only two things to say about your"—he flipped the book over and read the name of the author—"Mr. Billingsworth. Thistleton Park is under new ownership."
"Yes, but—" the girl began.
"And unlike my aunt, I have no time for entertaining or 'recounting local histories.' Furthermore, my folly is not open to visitors. So I will say it again, you and your teacher are not welcome."
"There goes breakfast," he heard Pippin mutter, her great blue eyes turned in covetous longing toward the sideboard.
The Misses Langley cast him glances that all but branded him the worst curmudgeon this side of the House of Lords, while their beast of a dog was once again eyeing his boots with a renewed interest.
Even Birdwell had the nerve to make a disloyal "
tsk-tsk"
behind his back.
But it was the scathing look from Miss Porter that sliced into his gut. It said only too clearly that she had expected nothing less of him.
And that cut Jack to the quick.
Wasn't that what he wanted? To be left alone to the tasks at hand? Not to have a bunch of curious cats nosing about his estate?
The ruder he was, the more likely these ladies would flee Thistleton Park and spread the word of his inhospitable and ungentlemanly ways from one end of England to the other, or wherever it was their travels took them.
Which was exactly what he wanted. Not some spinster's regard—even if she was a redhead with an enchanting form hidden beneath her dour and proper gown.
Jack ground his teeth together, trying to remember he was now a disreputable boor, not a gentleman, and in no way the rake who had once charmed the
ton
.
It was a battle he won only partly.
"Very well. Give them their breakfast, Birdwell. But no tours, no folly. After you've picked my poor larder clean, ladies, I want you gone so I can have some peace in
my
house."
From the shocked looks on all their faces, that had probably done the trick, but to shore up his case, and before he took another glance at that one stray red tendril that was threatening to spill from Miss Porter's otherwise tight chignon, he stormed out of the room.
There were times when even a rake knew to flee.
With the impossible Lord John well and gone, it was much easier for Miranda to take charge of the situation.
As long as she could also take charge of
"Actually it is," she had the nerve to say. Turning to Pippin, she said, "Cousin, do you have the guidebook?"
Pippin nodded and handed over a thick leather-bound tome. "The description is on page seventy-four."
His all-too-determined and unwanted guest thumbed through the book until she came to the page, then she handed the entire thing over to him. "If you please, my lord, read what Mr. Billingsworth says."
She pointed at a passage and looked at him with such a sweet, compelling look that he found himself, against his better nature, reading the text.
Albin's Folly is a spectacular example of classical architecture and should not be missed by any traveler intrepid enough to venture into such a lonely reach of the Sussex coastline. Lady Josephine Tremont, the owner of Thistleton Park, is a fine hostess and all too willing to entertain guests. Though some view her as eccentric, this author knows from firsthand experience, she is a rare and charming lady who loves nothing more than to regale visitors with local histories and…
The passage continued on at great length, but he had neither the time nor the patience to read such nonsense.
Lady Josephine's charms, indeed! What was it about his aunt that had left every man between the ages of fifty and one hundred blathering on about her as if she were some octogenarian Venus?
"Miss?…" he said to the girl before him.
"Miss Felicity Langley, my lord," she replied very properly. Then she nodded over her shoulder, "My sister, Miss Thalia Langley, and my cousin, Lady Philippa Knolles."
"Yes, nice to make your acquaintance, but I have only two things to say about your"—he flipped the book over and read the name of the author—"Mr. Billingsworth. Thistleton Park is under new ownership."
"Yes, but—" the girl began.
"And unlike my aunt, I have no time for entertaining or 'recounting local histories.' Furthermore, my folly is not open to visitors. So I will say it again, you and your teacher are not welcome."
"There goes breakfast," he heard Pippin mutter, her great blue eyes turned in covetous longing toward the sideboard.
The Misses Langley cast him glances that all but branded him the worst curmudgeon this side of the House of Lords, while their beast of a dog was once again eyeing his boots with a renewed interest.
Even Birdwell had the nerve to make a disloyal "
tsk-tsk"
behind his back.
But it was the scathing look from Miss Porter that sliced into his gut. It said only too clearly that she had expected nothing less of him.
And that cut Jack to the quick.
Wasn't that what he wanted? To be left alone to the tasks at hand? Not to have a bunch of curious cats nosing about his estate?
The ruder he was, the more likely these ladies would flee Thistleton Park and spread the word of his inhospitable and ungentlemanly ways from one end of England to the other, or wherever it was their travels took them.
Which was exactly what he wanted. Not some spinster's regard—even if she was a redhead with an enchanting form hidden beneath her dour and proper gown.
Jack ground his teeth together, trying to remember he was now a disreputable boor, not a gentleman, and in no way the rake who had once charmed the
ton
.
It was a battle he won only partly.
"Very well. Give them their breakfast, Birdwell. But no tours, no folly. After you've picked my poor larder clean, ladies, I want you gone so I can have some peace in
my
house."
From the shocked looks on all their faces, that had probably done the trick, but to shore up his case, and before he took another glance at that one stray red tendril that was threatening to spill from Miss Porter's otherwise tight chignon, he stormed out of the room.
There were times when even a rake knew to flee.
With the impossible Lord John well and gone, it was much easier for Miranda to take charge of the situation.
As long as she could also take charge of
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