The Wagered Miss Winslow by Kasey Michaels Page B

jokes,” Beau repeated, buttoning the pristine white shirt and seating himself for the ceremony of the neck cloths—a tedious affair he loathed but endured in the name of fashion. He endured a lot of nonsense in the name of fashion, of respectability, of civilization—but even he had to admit his present condition was far superior to years of bathing catch-as-catch-can in freezing seawater and having his skin chafed by rough homespun shirts. “And I repeat, your wages are doubled as of this moment. Loyalty may not be purchased, Woodrow, but it does nave its rewards. Now, let’s get this over with, if you please, as I have to get myself downstairs posthaste and explain away my checkered past before Miss Winslow and I may post the banns.”
    “Yes, sir, Mr. Remington, sir!” Woodrow agreed, his face splitting in the first smile Beau had ever seen brighten the man’s face. “We will remember to offer the lady a drink—nothing too brutal, perhaps a glass of ratafia?—and then offer to take her arm to assist her in to dinner? And we will remember our utensils, most especially the forks?”
    “We will remember the forks most especially,” Beau agreed, doing his best not to feel like the backward schoolboy he knew himself to be. “We will remember the forks, we will not drink our soup from the bowl, and we will most definitely not eat our squab with our fingers.”
    “Oh, very good , sir!” Woodrow exclaimed as he knelt to help his employer with his footwear. “We shall make a gentleman of us yet!”
    Rosalind always dressed for dinner, even isolated as she was here at Winslow Manor, but never before in her memory had she dressed with such care, choosing and discarding several gowns before Mollie put a halt to the indecision by stating simply, “Unless you’re fixin’ to trip down them stairs in one of your nightgowns, this is the last of them.”
    “This” was a lovely jonquil-yellow gown fashioned of softest taffeta overlaid with a thin, transparent fabric of like color. She had ordered the gown from a pattern card sent to her by her modiste in London just six months previously, and its short, soft puffed sleeves were remarkably flattering to her well-shaped arms, while the modest scooped bodice and high waist made her appear more feminine than did her higher-necked morning gowns.
    She allowed Mollie to pile her blonde tresses on top of her head and agreed to the placing of a single, small yellow crepe flower above her left ear. The color might be a bit risqué for an English subject still officially in mourning for her late King, but the black-and-white crepe flowers designed to be worn in her hair were left in the drawer, as she knew they were supposedly reserved only for events requiring full court dress.
    Tonight’s dinner might be considered to be a vastly important event in Rosalind’s life, but she was determined that Mr. Remington see that she viewed it like any other dinner. Taking up a light paisley shawl—for her shoulders seemed to be embarrassingly bare—Rosalind directed one last, assessing look at herself in the full-length mirror that stood in the corner of her bedchamber, took a deep, steadying breath, and motioned for Mollie to open the door.
    Her head held high, she thanked the maid and stepped out into the hallway, prepared to meet with Mr. Beaumont Remington, listen to his explanations, and then summarily order him out of her house.
    She had taken only three steps when the door to her father’s old bedchamber opened and her unwelcome boarder emerged into the hallway, his back to her. His evening dress was a marvel of flattery to his tall, muscular body. His dark-as-night, carelessly arranged hair glistened with moisture, as if he had dunked his head under a pump, and his carriage whispered of elegance while his appearance, when taken in total, screamed of raw, barely leashed energy and power.
    Rosalind suddenly felt exceedingly small, extremely defenseless, and very, very