Elisabeth Fairchild Read Online Free

Catherine, but you can call me Cat. Everyone does. That’s my sister, Nell.”
    “Qu-Quinby?” Beau dropped one of his borrowed gloves, so great was his surprise. How very odd! In fleeing one Miss Quinby, he ran smack into two more.
    “Have we met?” Nell regarded him in a probing manner, as if indeed she recognized something in him.
    “No. I could not have forgotten that,” he said, with unwavering conviction.
    Her eyes changed. Lashes fluttering, her pupils widened until he seemed to swim in them. He stood, one glove on, one glove off, entranced.
    The plump partridge of a woman, who had at first been shrieking at them from the ditch, and then fainted away when it looked as if the two vehicles were about to collide, came tottering around the side of the phaeton, bonnet knocked askew another in her hands, mangled almost beyond recognition.
    “Fanella,” she cried, “Catherine, what’s happened to Fanella?”
    “I am quite safe, Auntie Ursula, unlike my poor hat.”
    Nell--she was Nell to him now--placed the warm weight of both her hands quite unexpectedly on Beau’s shoulders, and looked down into his eyes very gravely.
    “Will you help me down, Mr. Ferd?”
    Heart singing, for he was more than happy to assist, Beauford lifted both his hands to span the warmth of Nell Quinby’s narrow waist. Pulling her toward him with the pressure of one hand, he reached out with the other, to guide the falling fabric, as she swung--gracefully, despite the wadded material she dragged with her-- across the horse’s rump, and into his arms. His hands, one gloved, the other still blessedly bare, made sure her skirt fell free.
    Lord Beauford had the strangest sensation of drowning as the scent of violets and the wickedly arousing weight of her legs, along with his greatcoat, her cloak, skirt, and petticoat, washed over his waist, his thigh and his own braced leg, in a knee-weakening wave of muslin and velvet.
    She hit the ground before him unevenly, tipped forward on her toes into the ready prop of his chest, quite crushing the nosegay that cheerily decorated his lapel.
    Ignoring the loss of flowers, Beau steadied her. For one strangely irrational moment, with the heat of her pressed into his breathless chest, and the softness of her arm beneath the palm of his hand, he fought a disinclination to let her go.
    She was taller than the average. The dusty crown of her head was just above the level of his chin. If he leaned forward he could press his lips to her forehead.   
    “Thank you, Mr. Ferd,” she said, before he could act on the impulse. He took a half-step backward. The forehead he had considered bussing, wrinkled with concern. Her brown eyes lifted to his, full of contrition.
    “Your flowers. I’ve mashed them.”
    Before he could tell her she might happily mash his flowers any time, she stepped away, to shake out her rumpled cloak and skirts. Beau could not take his eyes off of her as she performed the simple task.
    She sensed he stood staring, and turned her head to regard him, a shy, wise, observant quality in the look. The new Duke of Heste felt as if Miss Fanella Quinby found something both engaging and bothersome in his continued regard.
     
    Charley Tyrrwhit observed that those who meant to catch the mail should make haste to do so in his carriage, while he saw to driving Mr. Deets safely home. Little Catherine Quinby offered to show him the way in the dogcart.
    “You would do so much for the fool?” Beau asked Charley.
    “I do so for you, fool." Charley nodded in Nell Quinby’s direction. “Unless I mistake the looks the two of you exchanged, you must not miss that coach!” He threw a contemptuous glance Deets’s direction. “With any luck, this obnoxious sot will tumble out on his way home.” His eyes narrowed. “If he does, I shall leave him under a hedgerow to sleep it off.”
    Beau grinned. “No more than he deserves.”
    “Right then.” Charley took up the reins. “I shall see to it that your