The Country House Courtship by Linore Rose Burkard Read Free Book Online

Mornay had told him to expect the arrival of a curate. It did not take a man of brilliance to understand that the occupants of the room were jesting with regard to a churchman. He felt deuced uncomfortable, but there was nothing else for it, so he knocked and opened the door all the way, so that both men could enter.
    â€œBegging your pardon!” he said, in a tone that was almost a scold, for he hoped to silence the room (and did); “Mr. Peter O’Brien!”
    From his position near the mantel, for Mr. Mornay was casually leaning against it, he cracked the smallest smile at Freddy. The man had bottom.
    Meanwhile, the effect of the butler’s unmistakably demanding tone was that the room immediately fell into an immense silence. It was either that, or the name of O’Brien, or the realization that their “Mr. Frogglethorpe” had arrived, and that he was nothing to snivel at.
    Mr. Mornay’s eyes flew to his wife. He was curious, no sense denying it, as to how she would behave with her old admirer. Ariana recovered her astonishment first, and cried, with delight, “Mr. O’Brien! Upon my word! Do come in, sir!” To the servant she added, “Thank you, Frederick; send in the tea now.” The butler, with a mild look of reproval that he could not erase, bowed lightly and left the room.
    Beatrice’s eyes were round with surprise—nay—amazement. She remembered Mr. Peter O’Brien! She remembered him as a tall, kind young man who had indulged her when, at the age of twelve, she had promised to marry him, of all things! She was blushing lightly for having just mouthed the words “Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe,” realizing that the man might well have heard her; and now her blush deepened at this memory. She despised blushing, however, and set to reasoning herself out of it.
    It had all happened when Ariana’s betrothal to Mr. Mornay was established five years earlier. Mr. O’Brien had maintained his hopes for her sister’s affection right up to the wedding. But on that day when Ariana and Mr. Mornay had fallen into each other’s arms—right there in Aunt Bentley’s parlour (for Mrs. Bentley hadn’t married Mr Pellham, yet, though she was Aunt Pellham now)—Beatrice had seen the forlorn expression on the young man, and felt terribly sorry for him.
    He had been speaking with her father, and she had every reason, to her twelve-year-old mind, to think him a worthy gentleman. So she had said, when her father introduced her, “I’ll marry you,” to the young man. The men had laughed, so she added, “But I shall, Papa, as soon as you give your leave!”
    So, without his asking, and contrary to all propriety, Beatrice had proposed herself to be this man’s wife! And now, five years later, here he was, standing before her.
What if he remembered? What would he think of her now?
    In the past, he had gallantly treated her fancy for him with the air of a fond older brother. He had never teased or berated her, not even when she stayed with his family on Blandford Street in London, and assured them earnestly that she would marry Peter as soon as her papa gave leave. Just the thought of these memories sent a little extra colour into her cheeks, and she suddenly felt as though she was at the edge of her seat. Of all the people in the world whom she might have run into at her sister’s house, this one man seemed the most unlikely—and yet here he was!
    His gaze fell upon her. He had very blue and intelligent eyes; eyes that were unlikely to have forgotten her youthful
faux pas
—Beatrice quickly looked away. Why was she feeling the least bit flummoxed over this meeting? She’d only been a mere child, she reminded herself, when she had rashly promised to marry him. Nevertheless, it was mortifying. She could barely take in his dignified appearance—the handsome demeanour and good manners he was displaying—for