...she always remained in the background, a nondescript little puddle of brown or gray muslin.
We left last week with:
By the time he’d changed and reassured the terrified man he would not be sent back to the front lines, it was almost noon before he escaped Town.
When one of the horses threw a shoe twenty miles outside of London, he almost cried defeat and turned back. The only thing that kept him within the posting inn walls was the terrifying fact that Mother had threatened him with an afternoon soiree at Lady Fosscroft’s. The soiree was not what he wished to avoid; it was the lady’s two very eligible, very well-dowered daughters who had no qualms, it seemed, of settling with a second son. Ever since their debut two years ago, he’d been careful never to be alone with either of them. As long as he had his wits about him, there would be no ‘accidental’ compromises forcing him down the aisle.
He nursed a tepid mug of ale while waiting for the
farrier and wondered what else could go wrong before the day was out. Most
likely, there would be a downpour before he reached his destination. Luckily,
the horse was expertly re-shod, and he was on his way in under the half-hour.
The sun had begun its final descent when he bade farewell to Grandon at Wilton
Manor swung up onto Euros, which had been tethered to the carriage, and
cantered up the graveled drive to Netherfield Park.
Because of his many delays, Richard arrived late for
Hurst’s dinner party and heard everyone
gathered in the front drawing-room. Not wanting to draw attention to himself,
he asked the butler not to announce him. Familiar with the layout of
Netherfield Park, he hastened toward one of the servant’s entrances and slipped
into the drawing-room through a hidden door situated near the pianoforte. Upon
entering, he glanced around the milling guests and only paused from going
forward when a discordant note was played, followed by a whispered, “Horsefeathers.”
He turned to
see who had whispered such an innocuous saying and saw Miss Mary Bennet seated
at the pianoforte, biting a lush lower lip. Time stopped. There was no other
way to describe the moment. It simply stuttered to a standstill.
She was beautiful. How had he never noticed that
before? He paused in thought and realized that he’d never held a proper
conversation with her. Not once in all the family gatherings over the past few
years, not even when he taught the ladies
how to shoot after the incident at Nathan and Caroline’s wedding ball. He was fairly
certain she’d been in attendance at Darcy’s house for the infamous dinner when
Adborough reconciled with Georgiana. Still, he’d been too busy glaring at the
erstwhile Duke to care, and, if he were honest, he’d never taken notice of her
because she always remained in the background, a nondescript little puddle of
brown or gray muslin.
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