Victoria and the Rogue by Meg Cabot Read Free Book Online

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    England at last, my child. It’s been too, too long.”
    Mr. Gardiner said nothing but “Harumph,” and lowered his glass again.
    But young Captain Carstairs was not finished.
    “May she take London society by storm,” he went on, still gazing steadily at Victoria, who, with a
    sudden sinking feeling, narrowed her eyes at him in warning. It was a warning, however, that the young
    man did not heed. “And not forget us when she is, as I understand she is soon to become, the new Lady
    Malfrey.”
    CHAPTER FOUR
    “You did it on purpose,” Victoria said accusingly.
    “I swear I didn’t,” Captain Carstairs said with a careless laugh that infuriated her all the more.
    “Don’t swear,” Victoria said with a sniff. “It isn’t polite.”
    “Well, then, I promise you I didn’t.”
    Jacob Carstairs was looking infuriatingly cool and collected. How dared he look so calm, when Victoria
    was simmering over with anger at him?
    Well, he wouldn’t look half so cocksure by the time Victoria was through with him. It had been
    remarkably stupid of him to ask her to dance, knowing full well that she was still put out with him for
    revealing her secret engagement to her aunt and uncle. Perhaps he’d thought because a full week had
    gone by since the incident, that her ire might be at its ebb. Foolish man! Victoria had once managed to
    stay angry at her uncle Henry for a full a month, and that had been only because he’d used one of her
    best shawls to wipe down his pistols after a duel.
    Captain Carstairs, on the other hand, had ruined Victoria’s life.
    This was not, Victoria felt, an exaggeration, either. Since his thoughtless announcement that night at
    dinner, Victoria’s existence had turned into a living nightmare. Her aunt would not leave her alone on the
    subject of her engagement. Every time Victoria turned around, it seemed, all she heard was Lord Malfrey
    this, and Lord Malfrey that. How Victoria wished Lord Malfrey would hurry up and get home from
    Lisbon, so that she might appeal to him to have a word with her relations—or at the very least, convince
    him to elope at once, and remove her from their company forever. For they were driving her to
    distraction with their petty admonishments and concerns.
    What business was it of theirs anyway whom she chose to marry? If she wanted to marry an Indian
    fakir, who were they to try to stop her? For heaven’s sake, her uncles had sent her to England with
    instructions to find a husband. Well, she’d found one… and a more exemplary groom simply did not
    exist. Lord Malfrey was everything that was gentlemanly and admirable—intelligent, polite, attentive, and
    very, very handsome.
    So what was the problem?
    “You’ve only known each other a few months,” was Victoria’s aunt’s lament. But a few months was a
    great deal longer than many couples knew each other before taking their vows. Why, in India, more often
    than not a bride did not even meet her husband to be until their wedding day! And here Victoria had
    spent three whole months at sea getting to know hers! No, “You’ve only known each other a few
    months” was no sort of argument.
    Her aunt, Victoria knew, was only put out because Victoria had managed to get a husband before
    Rebecca had. Which wasn’t entirely fair, because Rebecca had only her pretty face to recommend her,
    and no fortune to speak of. Victoria was perfectly aware that a part of Lord Malfrey’s attraction to her
    was her inheritance. She did not blame him for it. Men had to eat, too, same as women.
    But she also knew that, had she been horse-faced or even, God forbid, redheaded, Lord Malfrey would
    not have taken the time to learn of her fortune. He would have dismissed her out of hand. No, her money
    made things easier, certainly, but it was her person first, and then her purse, that Hugo Rothschild had
    found so attractive.
    But what was so very wrong with that? What was a marriage if not a business transaction?