Prelude to Heaven Read Online Free Page A

that had been so evident during her illness. She shook her head. “I can't do that.”
    “Why not?”
    “I have no home,” she answered in a low voice, turning her face away as if to hide her expression.
    So that was the way of it? He had guessed as much. A harsh father who had thrown her out of the house, a dishonorable lover who had refused to marry her, and a family scandal. “What will you do, then?”
    She met his gaze and took a deep breath. Instead of answering, she asked, “You live alone here, monsieur? No family? No servants?”
    He stiffened and his eyes narrowed. He said nothing.
    Tess continued, “I would be very grateful if you would allow me to stay. I could keep house and—”
    “No.” The word was flat, unemotional, and final.
    “I know how to run a household, monsieur.”
    “Perhaps,” he acknowledged with a slight nod, “but I need no one to run my household.” The last word was said with deliberate mockery as he gestured to the overgrown courtyard. “I prefer it as it is.”
    “I could cook for you.”
    “I cook for myself.”
    “Perhaps I could tend your garden?”
    He glanced down pointedly at her swollen abdomen. “Not for long.”
    Heat stained her cheeks, but she still didn't give up. “Well, I could mend your clothes, then.” She gestured toward his torn shirt. “That's something you obviously can't do for yourself. And I can clean and keep house for you. I beg your pardon if this sounds rude, but you seem to need a housekeeper. And I need a place to stay.”
    He folded his arms across his chest and met her eyes. “You do not seem to understand, mademoiselle. I don't want you here.”
    “I won't cause you any trouble. Please, monsieur, please let me stay.”
    He stared at her long and hard, giving nothing away. When he spoke, his voice was harsh even to his own ears. “Why should I?”
    “Because,” she said simply, “I have nowhere else to go.”
     

Chapter Three

     
    Martin Trevalyn drummed his nervous fingers against the leather case beside him and stared out the carriage window, oblivious to the rain-washed countryside of Kent. He wished there had been some way to postpone this meeting, but the earl had been adamant. And Martin knew better than anyone that Nigel Ridgeway, the Earl of Aubry, was not a man to be gainsaid.
    Martin, as the family solicitor, handled all the earl’s private legal affairs, and the private legal affair of the moment was one requiring both discretion and finesse. Martin, fortunately, possessed both those qualities. He wished, however, that he had more time. But he sensed Lord Aubry was running out of patience.
    The carriage turned down the tree-lined lane leading to Aubry Park. Martin removed his gold-framed spectacles and polished them with a linen handkerchief. Resting them once more on his broad nose, he pulled out his watch and was relieved to note that he would not be late. The earl was obsessed with punctuality. Martin put his watch back in his waistcoat pocket and pulled the leather case onto his lap. His fingers continued their agitated rat-a-tat as the carriage turned again, pulling into the drive.
    Martin had been to Aubry Park many times, and as always, he was struck by its symmetrical beauty. Aubry Park was an elegant residence, with its long windows, marble columns, and classical sculpture. But now, in early summer, with the roses in bloom and the wide lawns lush and green, it was splendid indeed.
    Martin gripped the handle of his leather case in one hand and alighted from the carriage. He ascended the wide flagstone steps, where he presented his card to the properly expressionless butler.
    He was shown into Lord Aubry's immense library. He spared only the most cursory glance for the priceless paintings and artifacts, the exquisite rosewood tables, and the lavish carpets and draperies, but he cast a covetous eye over the leather-bound volumes that lined the long wall.
    A lover of books, Martin knew that the Earl of Aubry was