When Angels Fall by Meagan McKinney Read Free Book Online Page A

town. Several travelers on the road bade their horses pause as they, too, watched the bustle.
    A coaching party, consisting of scarlet-liveried outriders, blue-and-silver bedecked postillions, satin-clad coachmen, eight Irish Thoroughbreds harnessed with silver fittings, and last, a gleaming black-lacquered coach bearing the silver-and-black Powerscourt crest on its door, made its way through town, ultimately heading for the castle up the knoll.
    Peering toward the main thoroughfare of the village, Lissa gasped at the magnificent sight. Then she felt her heart lurch in her chest when she realized what it meant.
    Ivan had returned.
    How she had dreaded his arrival—dreaded it like a specter that had haunted her for five years. And now he was here. That thought left her almost in a swoon, but as she continued to watch the glorious entourage wind its way up to the castle, she couldn’t help the small thrill of pride that ran down her spine. Her stableboy had come home triumphant. And somehow, by fate or simply by sheer dint of will, he had shown them all.
    Suddenly she had the urge to laugh. Her terror now seemed absurd. The man who possessed this elaborate conveyance was not likely to spend his time seeking the company of two pauperish spinsters.
    She thought of him sitting inside his coach as it rocked and swayed. Even now she found her imagination trying desperately to picture him. Was he still handsome? Did his eyes still twinkle when someone made him laugh? Did his face still bear—
    “What is all the bustle about?” Evvie called to her from the front door. “I could hear the Johnsons exclaiming in the parlor.”
    Lissa could hardly speak for the emotion caught in her throat. “Lord Powerscourt has arrived.”
    All at once she felt tears of panic and guilt spring to her eyes. Acting like a madwoman she rushed past her sister into the house. There she began to change her clothes for a trip to Bishop’s. Suddenly her courtship with Wilmott could not wait.
    It was several hours later when Lissa came trudging home from the Mercantile. Disheartened, she had looked at every bolt of silk Mrs. Bishop could dig out for her, but there was not a yard in one of them that she could afford. There was always linsey woolsey, or worse, hopsacking, but she needed something appropriate for tea or, perhaps, a quiet dinner at the Billingsworth estate. And even the least expensive machine-made horror was still beyond the price she could pay.
    So with this dismal revelation, she walked through the village, her mind all the while scouring her wardrobe in hopes of finding a gown that could be modernized with some lace or cording. When she turned the corner to go home, she had just decided that her gray-blue serge could be refashioned. Her thoughts elsewhere, she absently looked down the path to her cottage. There, to her horror, she saw the coach.
    She stumbled forward in disbelief. It had to be some terrible mistake! The coach in the distance could not be the same one she had seen hours earlier. But, running, she soon confirmed that it was indeed the same. There were the postillions sitting idly on the Thoroughbreds, their silver-corded coats glinting in the fall sunshine. Two coachmen were leaning on the back of the cab, polishing their silver buttons and laughing, no doubt over some bawdy joke.
    Bewildered, Lissa came to a halt, then put her hands to her flaming cheeks. Panic again welled in her breast. This couldn’t be happening! It couldn’t, she told herself as she neared Violet Croft.
    But it was happening; the coachmen told her so as they met her arrival with a long, perusing stare; the weather told her so as she felt several drops of rain bring her back to reality. Ivan Tramore was at her house. Her entire world spun before her.
    Slowly she walked to the door of the cottage and grasped the heavy iron knob for support. Her hand wentto her waist to make sure her spencer was properly pulled down. When she was sure her chemise was