Wilda's Outlaw by Velda Brotherton Read Free Book Online

about the massive dining room.
    She swallowed and offered her hand, palm down. Continued to study him as he pressed her fingers gently, then withdrew without the customary kiss.
    There was nothing of pleasure on his countenance. Only a somber regard. The ebony eyes reflected candlelight, but no emotion. Full lips pursed in contemplation, his generous features, like his eyes, held no expression, as if they were crafted in clay and could never show emotion of any sort. The scar from his days of fighting in North Africa with the Zouaves, cut from the corner of his eye along one cheek, and added to the mask-like effect.
    Unable to remove her gaze from his, she watched as he greeted each of his guests without a change of expression. Finished with that chore, he raised the delicate fingers of one hand and the girl in the corner hurried off to fetch the first course of a meal that went on interminably.
    Hungry as she was, she could scarcely eat a bite. Still no sign whether he wanted her to remain or go. The suspense was excruciating.
    He met each attempt at conversation with a nod of the head or complete disregard. Her hopes that his leaving England and coming to this place might improve his moodiness were dashed. Only Tyra, oblivious to anyone’s disposition but her own, chattered and laughed and partook of the food with a voracious appetite. She didn’t seem to notice that most of her direct questions to the lord of the manor went unanswered.
    Before they finished, he patted his mouth with a linen napkin and rose. “I will leave you to your dessert. I requested Manchester pudding as a special treat. I have some business to attend to. If you need anything, ask Simmons or Layton. They will see to your needs.” He stood behind the chair for a moment, then addressed Wilda. “Madame?”
    Flustered, she dropped her fork speared into a bite of pork. It rattled onto the exquisite China plate. Hands clasped in her lap she glanced up at him. “Yes, my Lord?”
    “I shall see you and Mrs. Chesshire in the library tomorrow after breakfast. We have much to discuss regarding this marriage and other pertinent business. I do hope you have more suitable attire than that which you are wearing.”
    Embarrassment flushed her cheeks until they burned. How dare he speak to her in that fashion, in front of everyone? A harsh swallow failed to dampen the fire in the pit of her stomach.
    He was halfway across the room before she gained her feet and rushed after him. As she stomped the width of the large room, she attempted to hold her tongue, but it was no use. Not even when Marguerite called her name in a warning voice could she halt her headlong plunge toward certain disaster.
    “Lord Prescott, sir.”
    The room fell silent.
    He stopped in the doorway, did not turn, so she was forced to address his back.
    “If I may, I would like to speak to you. In private.”
    “It can wait, Madame, until morning. I am sure you are tired and, as I said, I have other business.”
    “I do not care if you do, sir. If you cannot bring yourself to speak to me in private, then I will have my say in front of everyone.”
    By this time Marguerite had reached her side and curled an arm around her waist. “Hush, my dear. This is not the time or the place. I am sure Lord Prescott meant nothing by his remark.”
    “What remark would that be?” he asked, and whirled to glare at the two of them. Fury tightened his full lips, starred dimples in the angular cheeks and turned the scar purple.
    He actually was not aware that he had embarrassed her. The lout. That realization only fed her anger. Self centered, joyless husk of a man.
    Despite Marguerite’s additional warning squeeze, she drew herself up. “I daresay you are an expert on feminine attire, and I am sure you are accustomed to young ladies who wear silk and satin, but I, sir, am not in your class. Surely you were aware of that before you invited me to join you here for the purpose of matrimony. I have worn this