Elisabeth Fairchild by Valentine's Change of Heart Read Free Book Online Page B

if a similar expression knit her brow as she slid glances at Lord Wharton. Once or twice he glanced at her, when she remarked upon how wonderful it was to warm oneself inside and out after such a damp ride, when she instructed Felicity on the proper usage of the lemon fork, and when she suggested to the child that it was impolite to interrupt Mrs. Olive’s comments. Just as quickly he looked away, mind elsewhere. He would return to those distant thoughts.
    Elaine found her attention fixing on the glittering raindrops that lingered in the dampened gold of his hair. The fair locks were almost dry where the crown of his hat had protected them, a mass of golden, unruly curl, the sort of hair that she would have thought symbolized his character perfectly until today, until he had asked for--no--insisted upon--hot water, that he might take tea rather than the local brew.
    How beautiful he is. How sad his eyes when he looks at his daughter. I find myself drawn to him. How unlike me. Fair is as fair does. His person is handsome, but what of his intentions, his temper, his commitment?
    She had only to look at Felicity to be reminded of what this handsome devil was capable. She forced herself to look away, focusing on the child. Too unsettling, this fair-haired rogue. Too fascinating a contradiction. And yet, her thoughts would not be penned, as she willed them. Too often they returned to that brief and shining moment, when she had caught glimpse of something more, the man, the innermost man, rather than the monster she had mistakenly believed Valentine Wharton must be.

 
     

Chapter Seven
    T hat afternoon they plodded on in the misting rain without break: in the weather, their progress, or Mrs. Olive’s incessant snoring. Felicity slept, too, curled like a kitten in the corner of the coach, the cradle-like rock of the vehicle lulling. Elaine found herself inclined to drift away, to become one with the rumbling of the coach wheels. She might have been tempted to sleep had not sight of a horseback Valentine Wharton so completely captured her attention.
    He looks like a centaur. His horse’s legs became his, the two magically joined by a flaw in the window glass and the rain’s uneven pattern. The rippling muscles of the horse found echo in this man’s body, the swaying mane’s wet slap was mirrored by the man’s dripping locks.
    A fine seat. She had excellent vantage point to observe her benefactor’s tightly muscled rump, coattails buttoned back, united in swaying rhythm with the bay’s saddled back. So perfect was the match of that pounding rhythm, that Elaine felt it in her own body, in the carriage’s pitch and sway, in the flexing of muscles in her own posterior that she might stay upright in the seat.
    How fevered I feel. How flushed. Despite the damp chill, she loosened the buttons at her throat. The touch of her own fingers, there beneath her chin, upon her heated cheeks, reminded her of Palmer, of the reason she sat swaying in this coach today, invited to go all the way to Wales by a rogue with a reputation of monstrous proportion.
    Palmer had never struck her as a dangerous creature. Poor, pitiful Lord Palmer’s hot fingers groping for her buttons one evening in the schoolroom had come as a complete surprise. His voice thickly hoarse--so recently employed in the act of wishing his boys good night--had professed adoration, while she had backed away, heart pounding, eyes wide, voice caught in her throat.
    He had backed her against a wall, despite her murmured protest, fear keeping her voice low, fear of waking his sons in the next room, fear of alerting Lady Palmer to her husband’s iniquity. There were guests in the dining room below. A most alarming and embarrassing position. He had continued to advance when she could no longer back away, indeed he had used the wall to his advantage, pressing himself against her, thigh to thigh, one hand rising to cup her breast, the other covering her mouth, stifling her