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

fear he would take one look more at her and at once remember her rash promise! She hoped it was the sort of thing a gentleman would not dream of mentioning.
    Her thoughts were flitting rapidly through her head while Mr. O’Brien spoke to Ariana and her husband. It was difficult to comprehend that she was truly seeing Mr. Peter O’Brien again! He had always been handsome, in her memory, but seeing him now was like a jolt. Perhaps it was an air of maturity he had gained, more than an alteration in his features; but whatever the cause, he looked exceedingly fine. If it were not for the dread which had come upon her, she would be proud of him, and pleased to make this reacquaintance.
    His twin-tailed black jacket was well fitted, and just hinted at the latest fashion with a little bulge in the upper sleeves, and wide tailored cuffs at the wrists. His cravat was more voluminous than those her brother-in-law favored, but not unbecoming; a fine embroidered yellow waistcoat peeked out of his jacket, and breeches with stockings and black shoes brought the eye to the floor. A cane, and hat in one hand, finished the ensemble. His hair was neatly fashioned into a whip, and it gave him a sort of dash that she did not remember in him. And—wait—he had used to have blond hair. It had grown into a deep brown, with just a few streaks of lighter strands here and there. How unusual, and yet the colour, she had to admit, suited him.
    In short, he was as neat and fine a gentleman as Beatrice had seen, though she could not be sure if his polished look was due to superior tailoring, or if he had somehow grown into wearing his clothing with more aplomb. The dark colours suited a clergyman, and the hint of yellow from the waistcoat lightened his appearance so that there was no sense of severity in it. Beatrice reminded herself that if she could meet Mr. Mornay’s dark eyes without a single flutter to her heart, surely, the presence of a mere curate would do no worse.
    Ariana, meanwhile, was making introductions. When it came to Beatrice’s turn, she said, “Beatrice, you recall Mr. O’Brien; my sister, Miss Forsythe, sir.” Mr. O’Brien had been looking with polite curiosity at Beatrice, but at Ariana’s words he seemed to open his eyes wider somehow.
    â€œMy dear Miss Forsythe!” He recognized her. His tone was warm but not overdone.
    â€œHas she not altered a great deal in her appearance since last you met?” Ariana was smiling proudly. Mr. O’Brien raised his eyes while completing a bow, and exclaimed, in his soft-toned voice, “Altered, indeed! Grown up, I should say. What a pleasant surprise to see you.”
    Beatrice replied, while impulsively thrusting out one hand, “Thank you, sir,” and met his eyes. A flash of deep blue was in them, and something more; was it amusement? She blushed deeper. He took her hand and held it lightly, and even bowed over it again, but did not raise it to his lips. (
To her relief! What on earth had made her offer her hand to him?
)
    Ariana was smiling affectionately; Beatrice dared not look at her mother.
    Now, when Mr. O’Brien had entered the room, it happened so that he came in facing the sofa where Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe sat. His eyes fell upon Beatrice and inwardly he felt himself start; it was a pretty face somewhat like Ariana’s, but not. She caught his gaze and hurriedly looked away. He had no time to think about it, but somewhere in his brain he knew it must be Miss Beatrice. The sight of her! She was a young woman, not the pretty child he remembered.
    He had by now collected himself from the surprise. He’d been prepared to see Ariana Mornay but instead had spied a face that at once resembled hers, but was evidently not hers, and it had startled him. It was like seeing something that should be familiar, only it was also foreign. But now he was bowing to the real Mrs. Mornay, Ariana, who was reassuringly herself,