Anita Mills Read Online Free

innocent creature at her whim, I will refuse to even so much as speak to Mr. Thornton,” she managed in a low whisper, despite the tight ache in her chest.
    Sir John was in the position he liked least, caught between his wife and his daughter. For once, he did not immediately do Hannah’s bidding. Instead, he shook his head irritably and put them both off.
    “We’ll see—after I have finished my paper.”
    “There’s no room in one household for two mistresses, John,” Hannah warned direly, and then she turned on her heel, stalking stiffly toward the back of the house.
    “You’d best get to your room, Harriet. I won’t live with my house at sixes and sevens between you, you hear me?”
    “Say you’ll not kill them, Papa.”
    “Can you not conciliate her? Must you always set yourself against her?” he demanded rhetorically. “No, I suppose you cannot.”
    “Papa …” She wanted to shout that she’d tried, that she’d sought to please Hannah since she was but a small child, but that Hannah could not be pleased. Instead, her protest died on her lips. If she forced the matter now, she knew she’d lose her cats forever.
    “Humph! We’ll see. As for you, missy, I’ll expect you to be more than merely civil to young Thornton, you hear? Aye, and I’d have you wear something decent this time! And for God’s sake, do something with that hair! I won’t have him thinking you are even older than you are!”
    Having won a brief reprieve for her animals, Harriet fled to the haven of her room, throwing herself on her bed. She was four-and-twenty, and yet she might as well have been a small naughty child, the way they treated her. And she had no illusions that it would ever change, because Hannah would never be satisfied until she’d rid herself of an unwanted stepdaughter.
    The cats were but one more pain to be borne, and Harriet had reached the point where she could no longer bear it. For a moment she even considered Edwin Thornton, but she knew in her heart that she’d be just as miserable as his wife—marrying Edwin would be like marrying a male Hannah. Tears of self-pity, too long stifled, rolled down her cheeks unchecked as she drew her coverlet about her and tried to keep warm. She was so enveloped in her own misery that she didn’t even hear the commotion in the lower hall.
    Sir John had been about to dispose of Abelard into Thomas’ arms with the admonition to take him to the stables and keep him out of sight when the sounds of a carriage rolling down the drive brought him up short. He peered out the tall, small-paned windows that framed the double front doors, wondering who would brave the cold for a visit. The black lacquered coach pulled up almost to the steps, disgorging none other than Sherborne himself. Under other circumstances, Sir John would have been less than pleased to see his wife’s scapegrace nephew, but in this case he was relieved.
    A gust of cold wind blew in as the door was opened to admit the viscount. And with a crow of triumph Sir John thrust the kitten at him as Richard handed his caped greatcoat to the footman.
    “Here—’tis yours, sirrah, though what you can want with the beast, I am sure I don’t know. A man with a cat—humph! And while you are about it, you might as well have the mother and the other one too! Saves me the trouble of having ’em drowned and listening to Harriet weep over it!”
    With that, he strode off, paper still in hand, toward the warmth of the front saloon. For a long moment Richard stared after him, thinking his uncle had lost his mind. And then he looked down at the fuzzy black ball that both chewed and clawed at the leather of his fine driving glove.
    “Er … Thomas, is it? Would you be so kind as to inform Miss Rowe that I am here?” he addressed the footman, still bemused by the creature straddling his wrist. “And ask her to hurry—I am not overly fond of cats.”

Chapter 3
3
    By the time Harriet got downstairs, Richard Standen was