Tempted By His Secret Cinderella (Allied At The Altar Book 3)

by Bronwyn Scott

Thankfully, she’d not had to dance, except one time with Lady Entwhistle’s eldest son. His toes had remained unscathed, but Letty was quite certain she’d miscounted her steps and sadly lost the rhythm.

  It would be bad enough to lack co-ordination if one were petite with tiny dainty feet. It was worse when one was tall with feet which could never be called dainty.

  He had not asked again.

  Still, even blurry, the scene was pleasant to observe. Dancing had a science to it, she decided. Some individuals moved with fluidity, as though innately able, while others stepped with measured care, each movement requiring concentration. Sometimes, she wondered if the ability to move rhythmically was but another skill just like her brother could write while she retained everything she read so easily.

  Which reminded her... Letty straightened with sudden determination. Lord Entwhistle had the most delightful, wonderful of things: a fully stocked library. Since her father’s death, her mother had cancelled the subscriptions to all scientific journals and Letty almost salivated with her eagerness.

  With a furtive glance, Letty sidled along the wall. Her mother appeared to be conversing with a lady some distance away. Given the frequency of her nods and the way she leaned into the speaker, Mrs Barton’s attention seemed unlikely to waver.

  With another furtive glance, Letty slipped from the bustle of the ballroom and into the corridor’s cooler air. She inhaled, thankful to escape from the noise and warmth of the dance. Now, she need only walk the few steps to the library and hope that it was not otherwise occupied.

  It wasn’t. The large dim room was wonderfully empty. Its curtains were not yet drawn and pale moonlit shone through the windows. Wall sconces bathed the room in a golden light so that the embossed titles glinted with magical promise.

  She loved libraries. She liked the excitement of seeing those bound volumes, each promising information, knowledge and unknown worlds. She liked the smell of them, that dusty, leathery scent, as though the air itself was steeped in history.

  Anticipation mixed with the nostalgia of childhood memories pulsed through her as she stepped forward, running her fingers across the smooth leather spines. She knew exactly which title she needed. Ah, there it was. Grabbing the Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal, she pulled it off the shelf and clutched it to her chest. There was a fascinating article that she’d been wanting to read for ever. Well, since her brother had written to her about it. Ramsey was a wonderful brother, so like her father it hurt. It was quite possible that life as his spinster sister would be better than that of some bewhiskered worthy’s wife.

  Except she didn’t want to be wife or spinster. She wanted the impossible.

  Still, she refused to descend into the doldrums, particularly when she’d just found her favourite scientific journal. Sinking into the cushiony depths of the armchair, she pulled out her spectacles, thankful she had thought to secrete them in her reticule.

  Positioning herself under the wall sconce, she glanced furtively to the door. Likely her mother would look for her soon, but she was a fast reader and able to skim through the words, retaining almost every word for review later.

  Running her fingers gently over the leather bindings, she opened the tome. Very carefully, she found the article and with a sigh of deep content started to read.

  * * *

  Tony strode into the library. He felt like a fugitive. Indeed, if he had to talk to one more vapid school miss... What did those mealy-mouthed governesses teach anyway? Certainly not the art of interesting conversation—he did not know which was worse: the tongue-tied, big-eyed silence or the foolish chatter about ribbons, bonnets and the like.

  A noise startled him. He scanned the room, irritated that even here he had failed to find solitude. To his surprise, he saw a female figure curled within the library chair and apparently perusing a large volume. She wore a dreadful, ruffled gown of vibrant green. Her hair was an equally vibrant red and she was so absorbed in her reading that she had not looked up. He cleared his throat.

  She glanced in his direction. Her brows, surprisingly dark, drew together over gold-rimmed spectacles as she eyed him with an intense gaze. ‘I thought I was alone.’

  Her tone and expression indicated that solitude would be preferable. Indeed, her rather stern aspect did not contain any of the giddy girlishness he had come to expect.

  ‘My apologies for disturbing you,’ he said.

  She nodded, offering none of the usual polite platitudes and turned back to the book, an obvious dismissal which would irritate if it were not so damned amusing. For a moment, he watched her, fascinated by the apparent intensity of her concentration as well as the strong lines of her face, chin and high forehead.

  Again momentarily aware of his presence, she glanced up, removing her spectacles. ‘Please sit, if you would like.’

  She fixed him with her direct gaze. Her eyes were very green, a true green, not that wishy-washy mix of brown or grey which people called hazel. He sat, momentarily discomforted by the intensity of her gaze.

  ‘You also find dances overwhelming?’ she asked.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You looked pale. You sat with an abrupt motion as though off balance. However, you appear too young and healthy to suffer from any malaise. And you do not seem intoxicated. Not that I have a great deal of experience with intoxication, but I saw my brother the worse for drink on one occasion and his speech was slurred and voluble while you have said little but with clear enunciation. Anyway, I wondered if you also found the noise and movement of the dance floor exhausting?’

  ‘Um...not usually,’ he said after this monologue. Indeed, this was a tame event, too full of debutantes, anxious mothers and warm lemonade to encourage inebriation. He would not have attended except for his sister. ‘I take it you are not enjoying the festivities?’

  She pulled a face, but then smiled. He found the change from a serious demeanour to one of mischief intriguing. ‘Not entirely, although having access to Lord Entwhistle’s library is a solace, to be sure. You won’t tell?’

  ‘I am the soul of discretion.’ Although he doubted that the kindly Lord Entwhistle would care. He glanced at the book which so obviously fascinated her, uncertain what to expect. His sister liked novels and botanical books from which she would copy flowers and ferns with scrupulous attention to detail.

  More recently, she had also taken to devouring fashionable journals and often begged their mother for the latest mode.

  ‘Goodness!’ He gave a spontaneous chuckle as he read the title of the article. ‘“Cowpox”? You are reading about cowpox?’

  ‘Yes, and smallpox. Neither of which is a subject for amusement,’ she said reprovingly.

  He straightened his countenance. ‘No...um... I should not have laughed.’ This rather odd female seemed to have made him abandon a decade of niceties. And he was not exactly inexperienced. He had travelled the Continent and attended any number of balls and dances in London without feeling in any way socially inadequate.

  ‘You likely found the peculiarity of the subject amusing. My mother says that discussions about such topics will make me an oddity.’

  ‘She may be correct,’ he said, his lips twitching again.

  ‘She usually is. Or if not, her conviction of her own infallibility makes everyone believe it must be so.’

  ‘She sounds rather like my father,’ he said.

  He was still angry about a lecture his father had given him on a large sum of money he had lost in a bet. It had started with a card game and ended with a fast gallop across Rotten Row. Fun, but not good for the pocket.

  ‘Did your father tell you to come here, then?’ she asked.

  ‘No, that was Mother, actually. She is quite positive that my presence will greatly enhance my sister’s marital chances.’

  ‘And will it?’

  ‘Possibly. I decided that if I had to suff
er, I would ensure that my friends were similarly afflicted.’

  ‘Misery loves company.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Although his best friend, George, did not seem particularly miserable.

  Infatuated, more like. What did one feel when one’s best friend suddenly falls head over heels with one’s sister? And George had always been such a sensible fellow. And he’d known Elsie for ever, except now he looked at her as though she was some miraculous creature—as if gowns and ribbons had the power to transform.

  ‘So, what is the fascination with cowpox?’ he asked, searching for a more pleasant topic.

  She did not answer for a moment, again fixing him with her disconcertingly direct gaze. ‘Did you want to know? Or do you merely aim to be polite?’

  ‘Actually, I find I want to know,’ he said, rather to his own surprise.

  ‘Very well.’ She spoke with the tone of a schoolmaster. ‘The concept of introducing a pathogen to develop a strength is so interesting. And then there is the controversy. You see, Dr Jenner is thought to have first identified that a person may be less likely to contract smallpox if they have been previously infected with cowpox. But Jesty the farmer may have had the idea first.’

  ‘Controversial cowpox—even more entertaining.’

  She frowned, fixing him with a dubious gaze. ‘Not the adjective I would use, but I surmise you are an individual frequently in search of entertainment.’

  She spoke with surprising perspicacity for one so interested in cowpox.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘My brother is the responsible one. Do you not find that life can become remarkably dull, remarkably quickly?’

  ‘At times,’ she agreed, nodding her head for emphasis. ‘But you have no excuse for boredom. You can read whatever you want and likely no one cancels your scientific journals.’

  ‘Er...no,’ he said.

  He had never subscribed to a scientific journal in his life. He nodded towards the open book on her lap. ‘I take it yours were? Hence your interest in Lord Entwhistle’s library?’

  ‘Yes—you see, I would like—’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘I believe my aspirations might be considered odd. You will not laugh?’

  ‘I have managed thus far in our conversation.’

  ‘To provide medical care.’

  The remark was so unexpected and unusual that he could not contain his reaction, which was a mix of both shock and amusement.

  ‘You mean like a—a—’ He had been about to say midwife, but realised this was hardly appropriate. ‘Like someone who gives out herbs and...and poultices,’ he concluded lamely.

  ‘Or a doctor, surgeon or even an apothecary.’

  ‘Good gracious, why on earth would you want to do so?’

  She shrugged, the dreadful green ruffles rustling. ‘I’ve always wanted to do so. I cannot explain it. It is somewhat like questioning why one would want to walk or do any number of things which are instinctual to us.’

  He was about to say that walking did not involve the removal of body parts with a handsaw, but there was again something in the green intensity of her eyes that made him stop. It was ludicrous, of course, for a lady to wish to be a doctor. It was ludicrous for a gentleman to do so, too, for that matter.

  ‘I imagine your mother doesn’t endorse that ambition?’

  ‘My mother’s sole desire is for me to marry someone of a higher social status. She keeps introducing me to titled gentlemen. Anyway, it is not possible. I mean for me to become a doctor. A female cannot enrol in medical college or even apothecary school.’

  He laughed at her disgruntled expression. ‘I am certain you will find something more pleasurable to do.’

  ‘And is that our purpose? To find pleasure?’

  ‘Generally. At least it is the principle I adhere to—except on those occasions when I must march around a square.’

  ‘You are in the military?’ she questioned.

  ‘The lot of the younger son. Although my brother also joined in an excess of patriotism. For me, it was either that or the clergy. I did not find myself well suited to the latter occupation. So, I take it you are currently hiding from your mother?’

  ‘And the latest gentleman she has procured for me.’

  ‘She might have found someone young and pleasant.’

  The young woman glanced down so that her long lashes lay like fans against her cheeks. Her skin was pale, but touched with just the hint of pink along her cheekbones. ‘Except I will not marry. I am quite decided on it.’

  He was struck by the room’s silence. For a moment, time and space seemed distorted, stilling and narrowing so that everything seemed focused on this one moment in this one room.

  ‘That almost seems a shame,’ he said.

  Then she shifted again, her smile widening and transforming her serious demeanour into one of wry humour. Her amusement was contagious and her smile engaging, the more so because it seemed a rare thing. ‘Not at all. Indeed, I believe it would be a goal quite destined for disappointment, given that I resemble a cabbage.’

  He looked at her and, while she was quite strikingly different from other young ladies, he would not put her in the category of leafy vegetables. Indeed, she was almost beautiful in a strange, unconventional way. Her eyes widened as hot colour flushed into her cheeks at his scrutiny. He saw her inhalation. Her lips parted.

  ‘I apologise.’ He stood abruptly. ‘I was rude again. I seem to be making a habit of it. And really, I should return to the dance and doubtless your mother is looking for you.’

  ‘Indeed. Her brows drew together as she looked to the mantel clock. ‘And I am not even done the article.’

  With renewed urgency, her gaze returned to her book, and he had the odd and unusual feeling that he had been dismissed in favour of the more fascinating topic of cowpox.

  He strode to the door, but paused, his hand on the handle. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Lettuce Barton,’ she said.

  Copyright © 2019 by Eleanor Webster

  ISBN-13: 9781488047343

  Tempted by His Secret Cinderella

  Copyright © 2019 by Nikki Poppen

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.

  www.Harlequin.com