Secret Hearts Read Online Free

helpers, Carlos and Rodrigo, and a host of people who work on the farm.
Mr. Silver can explain the workings of the farm to you, I suppose. I’m
afraid my expertise is limited to the house itself.” Peering demurely
into her teacup, she added somewhat bashfully, “And the garden.”
           “I
see. Well, Miss Montague, if you’re through with your tea, perhaps
you wouldn’t mind taking me on a tour of my new home.”
           Claire
put her cup and saucer down with a clank and popped up from her chair.
“Certainly, Mr. Partington. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
           Good
grief. If that were true, she must lead an extraordinarily dull life.
But, no. It was probably an empty social cliché and not to be taken
seriously. Thinking he really should have studied civilization for a
few more days before he tried living in it, Tom followed Claire Montague
out of Uncle Gordon’s parlor.
           No. His parlor. Tom sighed with satisfaction.
    # # #
           Claire
escaped from Tom Partington’s company as soon as she could. Not that
she didn’t find him utterly fascinating; he was all too fascinating
for her peace of mind, in fact. It’s just that being in the company
of the real Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee had inspired her to greater heights
of literary fancy than she ever could have imagined even two or three
hours ago.
           With
a feeling bordering on ecstasy, she sat at her desk and unlocked her
special drawer. Pulling out the manuscript of her latest dime novel,
she bent industriously to her task, writing far into the night. Even
when she finally forced herself to climb into her bed and pull the quilt
up to her chin, she stared at her ceiling, too excited to sleep.
           He
had come at last. And he was everything Claire had hoped he would be.
More. Polite, handsome, cultured, elegant: He was absolutely perfect.
    # # #
           Tom
pulled out every drawer and opened every cupboard in the library and
then in the pantry before he found a bottle containing distilled spirits.
He took it into the library with him and, after staring at the label
in bemusement for several seconds, poured himself a stiff one.
           Lifting
his glass, he saluted his uncle’s portrait. “To you, Uncle Gordo,
damn your eyes.” After a big swallow and a shudder, he added, “Good
God. Why on earth did you ever start drinking cognac?”
           His
tour of his new home had been unremarkable except that Tom felt like
pinching himself every now and then to make sure he was awake and this
wasn’t a dream spawned by years of back-breaking work and desperate
wishes.
           He’d
also found himself enjoying the company of Miss Claire Montague. Oh,
it’s true she was starchy, reserved and majestic. Still, she seemed
remarkably efficient and she hadn’t appeared to be offended by his
occasional gaffes. Like when he’d called his “boudoir” the dressing
room. Or when he’d asked, when shown the wine cellar, if his uncle
hadn’t kept any regular booze around the place.
           He
guessed he had a lot about gracious living to get used to. He’d manage,
though. Sighing deeply, he sank into an armchair, still gazing at his
uncle’s portrait. His contented expression gave way to a frown after
another sip of the fine, aged cognac.
           Tom
knew the old story, about how Gordon Partington had wooed the beautiful
belle, Melinda Grace Hartwell and how, on the eve of their engagement
party, Gordon’s dashing older brother, Grant, had swept Melinda off
her feet.
           Tom
often thought marrying his father wasn’t the brightest thing his mother
had ever done. Of course, marrying his mother wasn’t the brightest
thing his father had ever done, either. But then, Tom was a practical
person, unlike either of his parents. God alone knew how he’d managed
to end up that way; must be a throwback to an