The Wagered Widow by Patricia Veryan Page B

Rebecca’s shoulders, and tied a fruit-bedecked straw hat with a wide brim atop her curls. Knowing that the long day on the water might well play havoc with her hair, Rebecca had told Millie to use no powder and had chosen a style that she herself could restore did it become disarranged. When she walked down the stairs beside her aunt, a chorus of admiration arose from the gentlemen gathered in the Great Hall. The full, red lips of The Monahan tightened as The Beauty took in Rebecca’s sophisticated gown. The green eyes flickered to the shining jet locks. She murmured, “But how charming. Quite a gypsy look. Were your parents foreign, perhaps, ma’am?”
    Seething, Rebecca (whose grandmama had been a Spanish lady) retaliated sweetly, “Why, yes, I suppose they were in a sense. My ancestors were—Norman, as I understand.” And she swept past and out on to the front steps.
    A hand was under her elbow. A deep chuckle caused her heart to leap. “I see that you are in form—as ever, Mrs. Parrish.”
    Rebecca’s heart reversed direction and thudded into her shoes. She all but wailed, “De Villars! Oh, but I thought you were not coming.”
    He also had abandoned powder today, and his thick brown hair was less severely dressed, betraying a tendency to curl that made him seem more youthful and somewhat less menacing, despite the wicked glint in the shrewd eyes. Leaning to her as he ushered her to the waiting carriage, he murmured a provocative, “I could not bear that you should miss me, sweeting.”
    â€œDo not dare call me that!” she hissed. “If my brother knew it, he would—”
    â€œCall me out?” The thin lips sneered. “I try not to judge silly fribbles, having been one myself. Still, I think even Boothe would not be so unwise.”
    The cruel voice pierced Rebecca’s heart with an arrow of ice. He was more, not less, menacing! If only half of what she had heard of him was truth, Snow would be an easy prey for him. Her dear brother was a fine swordsman, but this man was sure death! She wrenched her arm away and then was climbing into the carriage, no easy task with her voluminous skirts and that confounded hat. Settling herself at last, she was breathless and still frightened and had to force a smile when Letitia Boudreaux took the seat opposite. The tall girl scanned her suspiciously. “Mrs. Parrish, I saw my cousin—” Miss Street was being handed up the steps, talking as she came, and leaning forward, Letitia said swiftly, “Ma’am, do not allow de Villars to frighten you. He can be a wretched tease, but—believe me, he is not near so wicked as he is painted.”
    Rebecca’s smile warmed, but she wondered what this gentle girl would think had she heard her evil cousin’s remarks. She did not join in the ensuing flow of happy talk and responded only briefly when her aunt climbed in to sit beside her. Looking blindly into the blustery morning, she decided that one thing was perfectly clear: de Villars must be repulsed, but she must do the business herself. Whatever happened, Snowden must not know how The Lecher hounded her!
    Sir Peter rode up to the window, his eyes brightening to a smile when he saw her. Rebecca’s heart lifted. Why should she fear de Villars? Ward was interested in her, beyond doubting, and de Villars was his friend. No gentleman would poach on the territory of a friend and, however base he might be, de Villars was assuredly a gentleman. She put her fears away. Today, The Plan would prevail!
    In only a few minutes they were driving along the banks of the river as it wound through meadow and copse and hamlet, sparkling in the brightening sunlight, and carrying upon its broad back ducks and mudhens, an occasional swan, and a few small pleasure boats. Soon, the carriages slowed and stopped beside a sturdy dock whereat a long, brightly painted barge was tied up, the breeze flapping the