Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) Read Online Free

almost wish you had not gone to London, if that is the impression you received there. You are not to blame for your uncle’s death—what nonsense! And, as to your Season, it’s your Aunt Matchett’s fault for not showing you off to advantage.” She glanced at the clock, then waved at her daughter in a shooing motion. “I think if you are to eat Cook’s meal when it is warm, you should go to the library now. I will follow shortly.”
    Diana met her mother’s eyes, then nodded. Mrs. Carlyle wished to be alone. Though Diana was loath to allow it, she understood such needs, for she also valued solitude.
    She reached the library at last, a well-lighted room with a warm southern exposure, heavy draperies at the window, and well-padded chairs and sofas—a comfortable place. It was one of her uncle’s favorite refuges, for though he was an avid sportsman, he had loved books as well. She caught something, however—a movement, a sound—that made her stop at the threshold before stepping over. Her eyes scanned the room, and her brows drew together in a frown.
    Feet. A pair of booted feet stuck out from one side of a sofa. It could be one of her cousins, but it was unlikely, for they always retired to their own rooms when they wished to rest—there was no reason for any of them to rest here. Certainly not one of the servants; the boots were gentlemen’s boots, and besides, her mother had trained all the servants strictly. None of them would dare be caught sleeping in the library. Quietly, carefully, Diana walked around the sofa and sat down upon a chair opposite to it, staring at the man.
    It was Mr. Sinclair. Her eyes scanned the clothes he wore, and she wrinkled her nose. He must be quite a distant relation—none of the Carlyles were dandies. Even in repose, the man’s neckcloth was unrumpled, his fine blue coat was stretched neatly across his shoulders (padded, no doubt), his waistcoat was elaborately embroidered, his fawn trousers hugged admittedly muscular legs—although she had heard some men enhanced them with sawdust—and his boots bore a bright shine that could only have come from some secret polish dandies always claimed they had.
    His long, elegant fingers, neatly folded upon his stomach, wore two rings, one an elaborate signet ring, the other quite plain. Diana wrinkled her nose again. Most men she knew—the men she preferred—wore no rings, or if they did, favored only one plain one. If this man was indeed related to the Carlyles—and she supposed he was if his facial features were any indication—he was certainly not like them in manner. Carlyles were robust and hearty men, favoring sport and the countryside, not like this lean, citified creature. She gazed at his highly polished boots again. How he managed to have cleaned them so well after his ride through the rain, she did not know. She cast a quick glance around the sofa—no, there was not even one drop of water on the rugs or the floor, much less the furniture.
    “Alas, I still have not met with your approval,” said his deep, soft voice, startling her.
    Heat flared into Diana’s cheeks, and she stood up abruptly, not able to look at him in embarrassment. “Please excuse me—I am not used to finding strangers lounging about in our house.”
    “Quite understandable,” he replied, and rose with an easy grace from the sofa. “The servants had not quite made up my room yet. It seems my letter went astray, and I was not expected today. And I am afraid this sofa was much too tempting—I had a long journey, you see, and had become quite exhausted from it.”
    She looked up at him, once again impressed by how tall he was. He had to be well over six feet, for she was tall herself, embarrassingly so, she found when she had gone to London. She almost grimaced, remembering how oxlike she had felt in London next to the fashionable sylphs and smaller women. Her Aunt Matchett had tried to corset tightly every part of Diana, but could do nothing about