Tremaine's True Love by Grace Burrowes Read Free Book Online Page B

sir.”
    She apparently wished they were nobody’s affair save her own. Alas, Tremaine could not indulge her ladyship’s wishes.
    “If I remain in that house,” he said, leaning closer, “Lady Kirsten will discuss the financial pages with me, Lady Della will want gossip from Town she’s too innocent to comprehend, and Lady Susannah will ask for more poetry recited in my charming accent .”
    While George’s interest likely careened toward territory Tremaine would not discuss with the man’s sister.
    In the midst of Tremaine’s tirade, Lady Nita smoothed a gloved hand over his shoulder, though his coat had been thoroughly brushed since their morning outing.
    “You do have a charming accent, particularly when in the grip of strong emotion.”
    “You are laughing at me.” Being made an object of ridicule could justify murder among some of Tremaine’s Highland relations, though amusing Lady Nita was a different proposition entirely. She was accustomed to her older brother raising his voice to her and provoking her to slamming doors. Her reaction to Tremaine’s complaining was altogether more interesting than a slammed door.
    Lady Nita had the decency not to smile, but her blue eyes danced an entire set of waltzes at the expense of his dignity.
    “Is it really such an imposition to prose on for a few verses about a mouse, Mr. St. Michael?”
    Two thoughts collided in Tremaine’s awareness and tangled with Lady Nita’s sweet, lemony fragrance.
    First, she had not been present when he’d trotted out his meager store of Mr. Burns’s verse for the delectation of the ladies. She’d collected a report about the matter, which was intriguing. Second, for the space of this small discussion—skirmish, altercation, or argument—Lady Nita had forgotten whatever mission propelled her back out into the elements on a cold winter day.
    “The poem is not simply about a plowman overturning a mouse’s nest,” Tremaine said. “Burns was writing about the tenuousness of life, the ease with which we can inadvertently cause mortal peril to one another, and how the same peril can find us despite our best-laid plans and our innocence of any wrongdoing.”
    Tremaine might have launched into an explanation of Burns’s precarious existence as a Scottish farmer, the poet’s tender regard for nature, or some other blather, but the lady was once again about her business.
    “Exactly, Mr. St. Michael,” she said, striding off. “Innocents among us are not responsible for the harm befalling them. You may spend your afternoon aiding my sister Della in her efforts to master the waltz, so that no missteps befall her in the ballrooms of London this spring. The gossips can be unmercifully critical, and Della is too tenderhearted for her own good.”
    So tenderhearted that Lady Della was closeted with Debrett’s , doubtless making a list of eligible dukes, while Lady Nita risked lung fever in her haste to ensure the well-being of a newborn.
    Did none of the Haddonfield menfolk regard themselves as responsible for her welfare? Had she turned them all into bleating sheep with her brisk pronouncements and swishing hems?
    “Spend the afternoon waltzing?” Tremaine said, resuming his place beside her. “Not on your life, my lady. I’ll start off twirling about with Lady Della, all in the name of gentlemanly charity. While the countess smiles at us from the piano, Lady Susannah will come next, and then, when I’m winded from my exertions and all unsuspecting, Lady Kirsten will take a turn with me, until they’ve counted my very teeth and reported my prospects to Bellefonte in detail.”
    “They already know you’re wealthy,” Lady Nita said, her tone…pitying? “Nicholas need not have invited you to his home purely for business purposes, though. He transacts most of his business in the City, or at least sees to it when he’s in Town.”
    Her ladyship’s honesty was not so endearing in the cold light of day.
    “You confirm my