Elizabeth Mansfield Read Online Free

very different women. Lady Phyllis, Tris’s mother, was small of stature, so delicate of feature that she still retained a youthful beauty despite her thick gray hair, and as gentle and soft-spoken in manner as she’d been as a girl; while Juliet’s mother had grown in strength and size over the years until she’d become not only a large, imposing figure physically but strong and purposeful in character as well. Too strong and too purposeful, Julie thought with a sigh.
    It was her mother’s fault that she sat hiding in the shadow. She was no longer asked to dance, even by the bumpkins attending this dowdy provincial assembly. Knowing they would never get Lady Branscombe’s permission to court her, they’d all given up trying. Juliet Branscombe was always a wallflower these days. Even if a miracle should occur, and a stranger should happen to attend this modest country gathering, and if he should happen to notice a shy but passably pretty girl sitting in the shadows, and if heshould happen to ask her to dance, and if she should have the courage to accept him, and if she should show the least enjoyment in the encounter (a great many ifs to have to become whens), her mother would frown at him so coldly and drag her daughter away so abruptly that he would never have the courage to approach her again.
    Of course these suppositions were nothing but foolish imaginings. Tris’s last words to her before he left had inspired these ludicrous fancies. In the first place, what stranger would possibly find his way to this backwater assembly?
    At that moment, there was a stir at the doorway, and she looked up to see that the plump, officious Sir William Kenting, who always acted as master of ceremonies at these assemblies, was ushering in a tall gentleman Juliet had never laid eyes on. A stranger had indeed found his way to this backwater assembly!
    And what a stranger! The mere sight of him caused Juliet’s breath to catch in her throat. He seemed a creature who’d materialized from her dream of masculine perfection. His height and the breadth of his shoulders filled the doorway; his hair was dark except for one streak of gray highlighting a center lock that fell over a high forehead; his eyes were light and piercing, his nose as perfect as a Grecian statue’s, and his lips full and curved into a thrillingly sardonic smile. And his clothes! No Derbyshire tailor could have fashioned that marvelously fitting evening coat, nor had any provincial valet tied that pristine neckcloth into such intricate folds. Heavens! She thought, a clench of excitement tightening her chest. Have my silly imaginings become real?
    Her pulse seemed to stop beating as she watched the man’s eyes roam over the room. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she asked herself, if this dazzling creature noticed her? And—absurd thought!—what if he actually asked her to dance?
    Meanwhile, everyone else in the room was staring at him too. “Who is that?” Lady Branscombe asked, raising her pince-nez.
    Lady Phyllis blinked at the gentleman in the doorway for a moment. “It must be the fellow who bought Wycklands. Canfield’s the name, I believe. Lord Canfield.”
    “Oh, yes.” Lady Branscombe nodded knowingly. “Canfield. I’ve heard of him. The eldest of the Granard brood. They say he’s a toplofty libertine. Not a welcome addition to our assemblies, I fear. Well, we needn’t take any notice of him.” And she lowered her spectacles, dismissing him from her sight and her mind.
    But her daughter continued to watch him with racing pulse. The fellow’s gaze was encompassing the entire room, but he did not seem to take particular note of anyone, much less an inconspicuous young woman in the shadows. After a moment, in response to a request from Sir William, the stranger looked about once more, shrugged his beautifully clad shoulders in obvious dismissal of the entire company and followed his host into the card room.
    Julie spent the next hour keeping watch on the