her experience with Bradley changed her so drastically?
She had not thought so, but recent events seemed to point to the contrary.
She did not want to be the bitter spinster living on her sister’s generosity, nor the sharp-tongued woman asked to play the role of the wicked fairy because no one could credit her as the heroine. She wanted her old self back, the happy, trusting young woman she had once been. She was only eighteen years old; she did not want to live a life of regret and resentment.
She wanted to marry. She wanted a family. That Cilla, who had been disowned by their father for four years, could be welcomed back into the fold so easily both warmed and stung. That her sister had found such bliss in her second marriage should have pleased her. Instead she wanted to lash out, to demand why she, too, could not have such happiness.
Dear God, perhaps she really was the evil fairy, jealous of her sister. The realization weighed like a stone in her heart.
She neared the top of the flight of stairs. As her head came level with the floor above, a movement caught her eye.
John Ready stood in front of the bedchamber at the far end of the hall. He glanced around, his manner furtive as he clutched his coat closed with one hand, his arm bent close to his chest. She ducked down so he would not see her, then cautiously peered back over the edge of the landing as he let himself into his room and closed the door.
What did he have wrapped in his coat? A lump above his curled arm gave a clear indication that he was hiding something. Dear God, was he stealing from the Baileys?
She had believed his protests of innocence this afternoon. Had taken his word that he had no designs on Annabelle’s fortune. Annabelle herself had appeared to trust him completely. What if both of them had been duped?
She narrowed her eyes, her mouth thinning. The Baileys had shown her nothing but kindness, and she would not stand by while this fortune hunter robbed them blind. Gathering her skirts, she hurried up the stairs and headed straight for the former coachman’s chamber.
Chapter 4
G enny burst into John’s room, taking great satisfaction as he jerked in surprise. Standing on the far side of the bed, he dropped whatever it was he held, then swore softly and glared at her as she remained in the doorway.
“Blast it, woman! Close the door!”
She flinched at his tone. He definitely seemed angry, which said to her that he was probably guilty as well. Ignoring both his demand and her own twinge of disappointment, she took a step into the room, folding her arms across her bosom as she blocked the doorway. “What are you doing, John Ready?”
He strode over to her, yanked her out of the way by her arm, then shut the door. “What part of ‘close the door’ did you not understand, Miss Wallington-Willis?”
She shook off his hold. “Open that door immediately! Have you no sense of propriety?”
“This from the woman who just burst into a man’s bedchamber?”
“We need to leave that door open. What if someone sees?” She turned toward it, and he stepped between her and the portal.
“No, we do not,” he said.
He prevented her escape with the sheer bulk of his tall, muscled form, his dark gaze implacable and communicating what she already knew. He would not move, and he could not be moved—not by someone like her, so much smaller and softer than he.
Had the air thickened? Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe?
“Let me go,” she said.
He raised his brows. “I am not stopping you from leaving.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No.” He smiled, a flash of startlingly healthy teeth through his dark beard. “I am stopping you from opening the door.”
“I cannot leave without opening the door, Mr. Ready.”
“I am asking you to wait a few moments. Surely that is not too much to ask?”
“Why?” She backed away a step, watching him with growing wariness. “What do you want from me?”
He shook his head and, taking
She had not thought so, but recent events seemed to point to the contrary.
She did not want to be the bitter spinster living on her sister’s generosity, nor the sharp-tongued woman asked to play the role of the wicked fairy because no one could credit her as the heroine. She wanted her old self back, the happy, trusting young woman she had once been. She was only eighteen years old; she did not want to live a life of regret and resentment.
She wanted to marry. She wanted a family. That Cilla, who had been disowned by their father for four years, could be welcomed back into the fold so easily both warmed and stung. That her sister had found such bliss in her second marriage should have pleased her. Instead she wanted to lash out, to demand why she, too, could not have such happiness.
Dear God, perhaps she really was the evil fairy, jealous of her sister. The realization weighed like a stone in her heart.
She neared the top of the flight of stairs. As her head came level with the floor above, a movement caught her eye.
John Ready stood in front of the bedchamber at the far end of the hall. He glanced around, his manner furtive as he clutched his coat closed with one hand, his arm bent close to his chest. She ducked down so he would not see her, then cautiously peered back over the edge of the landing as he let himself into his room and closed the door.
What did he have wrapped in his coat? A lump above his curled arm gave a clear indication that he was hiding something. Dear God, was he stealing from the Baileys?
She had believed his protests of innocence this afternoon. Had taken his word that he had no designs on Annabelle’s fortune. Annabelle herself had appeared to trust him completely. What if both of them had been duped?
She narrowed her eyes, her mouth thinning. The Baileys had shown her nothing but kindness, and she would not stand by while this fortune hunter robbed them blind. Gathering her skirts, she hurried up the stairs and headed straight for the former coachman’s chamber.
Chapter 4
G enny burst into John’s room, taking great satisfaction as he jerked in surprise. Standing on the far side of the bed, he dropped whatever it was he held, then swore softly and glared at her as she remained in the doorway.
“Blast it, woman! Close the door!”
She flinched at his tone. He definitely seemed angry, which said to her that he was probably guilty as well. Ignoring both his demand and her own twinge of disappointment, she took a step into the room, folding her arms across her bosom as she blocked the doorway. “What are you doing, John Ready?”
He strode over to her, yanked her out of the way by her arm, then shut the door. “What part of ‘close the door’ did you not understand, Miss Wallington-Willis?”
She shook off his hold. “Open that door immediately! Have you no sense of propriety?”
“This from the woman who just burst into a man’s bedchamber?”
“We need to leave that door open. What if someone sees?” She turned toward it, and he stepped between her and the portal.
“No, we do not,” he said.
He prevented her escape with the sheer bulk of his tall, muscled form, his dark gaze implacable and communicating what she already knew. He would not move, and he could not be moved—not by someone like her, so much smaller and softer than he.
Had the air thickened? Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe?
“Let me go,” she said.
He raised his brows. “I am not stopping you from leaving.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No.” He smiled, a flash of startlingly healthy teeth through his dark beard. “I am stopping you from opening the door.”
“I cannot leave without opening the door, Mr. Ready.”
“I am asking you to wait a few moments. Surely that is not too much to ask?”
“Why?” She backed away a step, watching him with growing wariness. “What do you want from me?”
He shook his head and, taking
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