Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet by Patricia Veryan Read Free Book Online Page A

span through which violet eyes held to eyes of
turquoise. Scarcely breathing, Sophia experienced a haunting sense of
irrevocability—as if a clock not previously wound had suddenly begun to
measure the seconds and hours of a tapestry woven of time.
    Something scampered across her foot, shattering that fragile
illusion. She gave a shriek as the mouse fled into a hole in the
wainscoting. Instinctively, her hand went out, and at once Damon's
vital clasp tightened around her fingers. Shrinking against him,
shivering, she glanced up, saw laughter in his eyes, and felt her
cheeks grow hot. Only then did it dawn on her that they were most
improperly alone in this remote part of the Priory. She pulled away
and, because he made no attempt to restrain her, at once felt flustered
and missish. It was foolish to think of Damon as her uncle, yet she
could well imagine Stephen's impatience with her unease.
    "This, ma'am," said Damon in his languid drawl, "is the home of many of my illustrious ancestors."
    Somehow his very tone reassured her. She looked pointedly after the mouse and murmured, "So I see."
    He gave a muffled snort, then, as if unable to recover his aplomb,
burst into a peal of laughter. When mirth overcame him, he seemed a
totally different person, warm and devastatingly attractive. It was
evident that he possessed a lively sense of humour, and it was equally
apparent that he was determined to stifle it. Even now, although
amusement still sparkled in his eyes, he swung hurriedly away and
sauntered to the nearest painting. She followed, wondering why his
irrational temperament should cause her to feel so troubled.
    She learned much of the House of Branden in the next half hour.
Damon had a droll wit, and she found herself chuckling at his
anecdotes, her own humour complementing his so naturally that the
moments flew past. And then they stopped before the last portrait, and
he was silent.
    Sophia stared upward, fascinated by the face above her. The man was
startlingly handsome, the face thin, with high, finely etched
cheekbones and a sensitive arched nose. The thick light-brown hair was
split by a white streak at each temple, giving him an oddly winged
look. The mouth above the firm, cleft chin was neither as generous nor
as perfectly shaped as Damon's, and the fine blue eyes held a trace of
sorrow, wherefore, womanlike, she felt drawn to him and breathed, "Is
this?"
    "My father. Philip—Duke of Vaille."
    So this was the doddering old fellow whom the wicked Clay had
allowed her to believe "senile"! "What a splendid gentleman," she
acknowledged, and then, with a naivete quite foreign to her, added,
"You are not at all like him." She could have sunk the instant she
realised what she had said. Mortified, she started to apologise, but he
overrode her words, regarding her with the lift of an eyebrow and
saying a glacial "You are not the first to remark it, my lady. Alas,
one does not always inherit the—ah—'splendid' characteristics of one's
sire. But I assure you he is my father."
    Blushing to the roots of her hair, she frowned, "What a dreadful thing to say."
    "Not at all. He has many splendid characteristics."
    "Odious!" she snarled, her small fists clenching with wrath. "Why must you insist upon misunderstanding everything I say?"
    "Your remark was perfectly understandable. Especially since your own brother, if I recall correctly, is
his
noble Papa—in every way."
    She was very conscious of the widespread and unhappily justified
opinion that her father had been a hopeless wastrel. Sure that Damon's
sneering words held such a hidden barb, she countered, "Thank you.
Stephen will be here soon to refresh your recollections of him."
    "Oh, gad!" With an affected little laugh, he raised his. quizzing glass to survey her flushed face. "Is
that
why Whitthurst rushes here?"
    "Of course not," she snapped. "He has urgent business with you."
    "Indeed? Then how sad that he will be unable to complete his
journey. Unless he takes the