Joan Wolf Read Online Free Page B

joking. Even Lord Winslow would not be as absurdly autocratic as that.”
    Mr. Sheridan was looking at the new earl. Nicholas’s nostrils were pinched and there was a white line around his mouth. He gave a bitter little laugh. “On the contrary, it is exactly like him.”
    “I tried to convince him to change his mind, my lord. There is more than enough to provide for the both of you without necessitating this—arrangement.  But you know how he was.” The lawyer sighed. “If you don’t agree to the condition, the collection is to go to the state.”
    “The will is legal?” asked Nicholas.
    “ It is legal, my lord.”
    There was silence as three pairs of eyes turned, asof one accord, to the small figure sitting so silently in the large armchair. Margarita’s face, still and shuttered, gave away nothing. The lawyer thought suddenly that no girl of seventeen ought to be able to look like that. She turned her eyes toward Nicholas. “Do you need the collection?” she asked simply.
    His mouth set in a hard, unpleasant line. “I need the collection. Winslow has been bled dry.” His eyes, gray-green as a forest pond on a cloudy day, were steady on her face. “It appears it will be up to you, Cousin, whether I get it or not.”
    “You would be willing, then, to marry me?” Her low, clear, precise voice expressed nothing but polite interest.
    A muscle jumped in Nicholas’s jaw. “Yes,” he said. “I would.”
    “I see.” She rose to her feet and said, with a lovely dignity, “I shall have to think about this. May I let you know my answer tomorrow?”
    She had spoken to the lawyer and he nodded hastily. “Of course, Miss Carreño.”
    She nodded to him gravely and walked to the door, which Nicholas was holding for her. She stopped for a moment and looked up at him, a long, clear look. “I will tell you tomorrow,” she repeated.
    “Yes,” he said evenly. “I heard you.”
    Lady Moreton stood silently watching them. She thought Margarita looked very small and helpless next to Nicholas’s great height. The top of her head did not quite come to his shoulder. But the slim back was as straight as a ramrod, the head held proudly on its long slender neck. She passed out of the room with the grace and dignity one usually saw only in older women.   Lady Moreton waited until the door was closed to ask Nicholas, “Would you really marry that child?”
    “I don’t have any choice, do I, Lucy? Nor does she, really, as I hope you will make clear to her. I may need that damn collection but so does she. Unless she brought money with her from South America?” Lady Moreton shook her head and he shrugged. “She has nothing, then. If she marries me, she will have money and position and a permanent home. Make her understand that, will you?”
    Lady Moreton stood for a minute looking at the face of her younger cousin. It was a startlingly handsome face, with unusual gray-green eyes that were cool and deep and hard to see into. His brows and lashes were brown as was his thick, straight hair. That hair was the only boyish thing about Nicholas. His nose was high-bridged and imperious, his mouth beautifully shaped but with a look of ruthlessness about it that was very evident at the moment. He looked at present just what he was, a very intimidating young man in a temper. “Why on earth did he do it?” Lady Moreton asked him slowly.
    He smiled. “He wanted his granddaughter here at Winslow,” he said. “He always regarded me as an interloper.”
    His voice was perfectly pleasant, but Lady Moreton found herself saying hurriedly, “That’s not true, Nicholas.”
    He shrugged. “Why he did it is not of importance at the moment, Lucy.”
    “No, I suppose not.” She walked to the door. “I’ll speak to Margarita.”
    What Lady Moreton had to say was little more than what Margarita had deduced for herself. Lady Moreton’s representations were only echoes of Margarita’s own Spanish logic, her impregnable sense of what