The Homecoming by M. C. Beaton, Marion Chesney Read Free Book Online

you must hold very tightly around my neck and I will carry you down.”
    He cautiously maneuvred himself down onto a branch next to her. “Now lean across, you silly widgeon, and put your arms around my neck.”
    He turned his back on her and waited while he heard her edging closer and then felt her arms go round him.
    “Do not let go!” He picked his way from branch to branch, aware of the young body pressed so close against his own.
    When he finally set her down, Lizzie found she was trembling. In an age when a chaste kiss or a pressure of the hand was the most young ladies received from their gentlemen before marriage, the intimate pressure of his hard-muscled body seemed stamped all over hers, that it had somehow
invaded
hers. And yet as he took her hand and helped her over the stepping-stones once more, he was all that was correct.
    “You have found the others?” he asked.
    “Yes, easily.”
    “I have been forgetting the real reason for my visit.”
    “Which is?”
    “To persuade my aunt to end this undignified farce.”
    “Miss Trumble—for I will always think of her as that—is a dedicated teacher and that has more nobility about it than leading the life of an unwanted maiden aunt.”
    “She has forgotten what is due to her position.”
    “The Beverleys were well-nigh on the road to ruining themselves because of arrogance. Miss Trumble has escaped all that.”
    “You are a radical!”
    “If being a radical means having a modicum of common sense, then I am.”
    He looked down at her, irritated. He felt she should be more in awe of him, instead of talking to him in this direct manner.
    And yet he would have stayed, and he would have gladly played another game, had he not seen Lady Beverley sitting waiting for him, and then all he could think of was making his escape.
    Peter, also, said he must leave.
    “You may come with me in my carriage, Mr. Bond,” said the duke. “We will tether your horse to the back.”
    After they made their goodbyes and set off for Mannerling, the duke said, “Instruct the servants to remove the mirror from my room and replace it with another. The glass is very old and does not give a true reflection.”
    *   *   *
    At the breakfast table the following day, the Earl of Hernshire read his post, finally arriving at the duke’s invitation. “Here’s a thing,” he cried. “We are invited by Severnshire to go on a visit. He has bought a new property, Mannerling.”
    His countess looked up from her morning paper in surprise. “What does he want with a new property? Has that palace of his burnt down?”
    “It does not say.” The earl rattled the stiff parchment of the letter. “You know what this invitation means, Verity?”
    His daughter put down her cup of chocolate and said calmly, “He is thinking of choosing me for a wife.”
    The earl gave a little sigh. He could not understand why Verity was still unwed. Her three younger sisters had all married well. And yet, here was Verity, the flower of them all, still a spinster at the great age of twenty-five. She had masses of thick brown hair, large liquid brown eyes, a patrician nose and a small mouth. Her bust was good, her neck was long. Her ankles and legs were thick but always concealed in long gowns. She had received three proposals of marriage but had turned them all down, saying they were not good enough for her.
    “If he does propose,” said the earl sharply, “I hope you will not turn all haughty and refuse him.”
    “Of course not,” said Verity. “He
is
a duke, after all.”
    In a neighbouring county, the Charter family were exclaiming over the duke’s invitation to them. “Oh, Celia,” said her fond mother. “A duke, no less.”
    Celia was small and fair-haired with large round blue eyes in a plump face. Her nose was unfortunate, being small and upturned, but she had a dainty little figure and neat ankles. She had only attended one Season and was popular enough but had set her cap at a baron, and