Bewitched by Sandra Schwab Read Free Book Online

flagship, Mrs. Bentham parted the crowd in search of some acquaintance or other. Soon she had spotted Lady Westerley, and the two women proceeded to exchange the news of the past few days. In hushed tones they talked about Henry Boothby, whom Lady Westerley declared to have been already stubborn and ill-mannered as a child. It left Amy to wonder what stubbornness had to do with “splewing” one’s brains all over a wall. “Ill-mannered,” though, she perfectly agreed with: After all, he didn’t have to clean up the mess he had created. Though surely, people of her own class usually never cleaned up after their own messes. But of course some messes cleaned up all by themselves. Like houses covered in cobalt blue.
    Amy scratched her nose.
    “Don’t tell me you’re bored, Miss Bourne?”
    Her head snapped around. Blue-gray eyes regarded her intently beneath arched cinnamon brows.
    Her own eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Mr."—Carrot—“Stapleton.”
    “Miss Bourne.” He inclined his head, and the candlelight ran a fiery path over his hair. When he straightened, she noticed how his dark brown coat accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. A golden floral pattern gleamed on the black waistcoat beneath.
    Very stylish.
    Apparently disinterested, he gazed over the crowd while his fingers drummed a noiseless tattoo against his thigh.
    Stylish, but sadly as cold and as odious as an old fish.
    “A nice crowd tonight, is it not?” she remarked pointedly.
    He turned his attention back on her, frowning. “I understand you were to meet Mr. Fermont. May I offer you his apologies? Unfortunately, he is … indisposed tonight.” His lips curved into a charming smile. Charming, but careless. A smile one might bestow on a small child.
    Amy’s nostrils flared. Under the hem of her long dress her satin slipper tapped the floor. If he meant to impress her with all of his freckled, carroty glory, he’d failed miserably.
    “He asked me to come in his stead. To make up for the loss. So…” He gestured with his hand. “Shall we take a seat?”
    “Why not?” Other than the fact that, while his waltzing technique might be divine, he was as cold as a fish and apparently also a stiff bore.
    They chose a pair of plush-covered chairs and sat down. Leaning his arm on the back of the chair in front of her, he turned toward her. “I understand I am to explain the music to you.”
    “Indeed.” She clasped her hands in her lap and valiantly suppressed the urge to twiddle her thumbs.
    “You don’t normally like music?” His was a polite, bland voice. They might have been talking about the weather.
    “The opposite is the case, I assure you.”
    “Ah.” He nodded knowingly.
    Oh yes. How could she have forgotten? Carroty hair, cold as a fish, a stiff bore, and on top of that he was a Mr. Know-It-All-Magic-Doesn’t-Exist. Splendid.
    Once again Amy was left to wonder what exactly she had done to deserve this. True, turning Three Elms blue was a serious offense—what if somebody had paid a visit that afternoon? Or what if one of the villagers had happened to pass by the house? Cobalt blue manor houses were rather difficult to explain away. But still, being forced to mingle with obnoxious people in a city that reeked with dirt seemed too harsh a sentence. The quaint cottage and the ill-tempered, scarred tomcat all at once appeared very appealing indeed.
    “But you don’t play the fortepiano yourself?” The voice of the horrid Mr. Carrothead cut into her reveries.
    Now she did twiddle her thumbs. “No, I’m afraid not. I never had the opportunity.”
    The buzz around them increased as people chose seats, and chairs scraped over the floor.
    “What a pity.” He moved on his seat. “Then your family does not own a fortepiano?” When he leaned back, the sleeve of his coat slipped up and revealed a small strip of skin above the white glove.
    He had, Amy discovered, freckles even on his forearms. Spots of cinnamon between coppery