Midsummer Eve at Rookery End by Elizabeth Hanbury Read Free Book Online Page B

Benedict Catesby and yet still the brute demanded to see her. They are in there together and goodness knows what he has said to dearest Deb by now!”
    “I see,” mused Lord Allingham. “Very well, it seems that I must intervene and see if Miss King requires assistance. I think it unlikely though – Catesby is a gentleman.”
    With Miss Tonbridge trying to peer over his broad shoulder by standing on tiptoe, Lord Allingham pushed open the door and entered.
    Sir Benedict, who only turned his head when his host addressed him, reluctantly released Deborah when he realized they were no longer alone.
    Miss Tonbridge, observing at once Sir Benedict’s cravat lying discarded on the floor and Deborah’s tear-stained face and the curls now cascading in wild disarray down her back, exclaimed, “I knew it – you have upset her, you unprincipled scoundrel! You shall answer to Lord Allingham for this.”
    She looked expectantly at his lordship, only to be disappointed when she saw his expression was not one of annoyance. Instead, a half-smile curved his mouth as his knowing gaze surveyed the occupants of his conservatory.
    “Catesby,” he began, “I’m afraid I have to ask – have you been foisting your unwanted attentions on Miss King?”
    “Allingham,” replied Sir Benedict in a solemn voice, “I admit to foisting my attentions on Deborah–”
    Miss Tonbridge cast a triumphant look towards Lord Alling ham.
    “–but I venture to suggest,” concluded Sir Benedict, now regarding his love adoringly, “that they are not unwelcome.”
    Miss Tonbridge’s expression changed from triumph to puzzlement. She glanced from Sir Benedict to Deborah. “Deb?” she murmured, thoroughly perplexed.
    Smiling brilliantly, Deborah laced her fingers through Sir Benedict’s. “Oh, Charley,” she cried, a catch in her voice, “be the first to wish us happy!”
     
     
     

Blue Figured Silk
     

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    The notorious fifth Marquess of Shaftesbury had found his amusement for the evening.
    Celeste Draycott was a consummate flirt and the Marquess, who had reached this opinion after watching Lady Draycott for the last half hour, concluded she was exactly what he needed to enliven his Midsummer Eve. The play at the gaming tables had been too tame for his tastes and it was time he engaged in more pleasurable pursuits.
    At that moment, Lady Draycott’s gaze met his and her provocative look confirmed she was a peach ripe for picking. The Marquess’s mouth curved into a smile; she was as brazen as she was beautiful and obviously well up to snuff in the art of dalliance. He also judged that her heart, if she had one at all, would be as hard as the diamonds adorning her elegant neck. He shrugged as he came to this conclusion. What did it matter if she was a woman of easy virtue and incapable of affection? He was not looking for love, merely to while away the rest of the evening in her embrace.
    The Marquess began to make his way cross the crowded ballroom, his height and long stride making his progress easier than it would have been for a less well-favoured man. He cut an impressive figure. Carelessly elegant, his great shoulders set off his evening coat to perfection and silk breeches encased shapely muscular thighs. Dark hair fell over his brow and a mien of languid boredom was belied by a firm mouth, intelligent grey eyes and a resolute chin.
    But there was something else apart from his physical presence which made the collected members of the ton move wordlessly aside for him – an air of danger surrounded the Marquess of Shaftesbury. His reputation meant gentlemen treated him with a deference tinged with awe, while ladies regarded him with a fascination laced with desire.
    He was renowned as a rake, a sportsman and a gambler; a man who was set fair to rival the excesses of his father, the infamous Duke of O’ffray. The genteel young ladies present might have been warned by their mamas about the Marquess, but many could not help