The Bargain Bride Read Online Free Page A

of her blow, but she’d done it. She’d tossed out the rubbish. She’d told him how she felt, and then she’d tossed him. She did it, Penny Goldwaite, the disposable daughter, the forgotten fiancée, the woman without a choice.
    Well, she’d chosen now, she thought with pride. And she’d chosen before Westfield, which was even more satisfying. Whether the fortune-hunting scum was here to claim her or jilt her made no difference. She’d struck the first blow.
    Then it hit her: She’d struck the first blow. She had actually hit a man. Her own betrothed. She’d never raised her hand to a creature larger than an insect, and now she’d punched a peer. How uncivilized, how unladylike, how good it felt, except for her stinging knuckles. The dastard’s skull was so thick she might have broken her hand!
    She checked. Her fingers moved, even if she could not yet. She was whole and she was free! Penny kicked off her other shoe, tossed her cap onto the floor, and filled her lungs with clean, fresh air only slightly tainted with the scent of brandy, horse, her own rose water, Grandpapa’s paints, and . . . ? Penny wrinkled her nose. And some spicy scent that was manly and exotic and exciting. No, she was merely basking in her victory, not inhaling the devil’s own cologne.
    She was free, and free to forget all about the slug, his smell and his smile. So what if he was tall and broad-shouldered and even more handsome than she recalled? So what if his dark hair curled onto his forehead in boyish innocence, and his brown eyes gleamed with gold flecks? His smile when he first saw her, despite her appearance, still held remembered sweetness, but his voice was deeper and richer. Mellow tones did not make his words—or him—one bit more trustworthy. Penny had no idea if anything he said was true or sincere, and she refused to ponder over it. Perhaps he had tried to raise the funds to end the betrothal honorably before coming to speak to her, as he had said. Perhaps his horse-raising enterprise was successful. Or perhaps he was here to steal Grandpapa’s silverware. No matter, she had now seen the last of Kendall Westmoreland, Viscount Westfield, former fiancé.
    Then she heard a rap on the door behind her and felt it vibrate through her skin.
    She yanked the door open. “Yes?”
    His hand was raised to knock again. “My hat and gloves and riding crop. I left them in the library.”
    â€œOh.” Sure enough, his hands were bare except for a signet ring on one, a gold band set with a dark garnet on the little finger of the other. There was nothing for it but to let the maggot back in, despite the fact that she had no shoes on and her hair was curling down her shoulders in ringlets. She could tell Westfield was trying to hide a smile when he noticed her further dishabille, so she turned her back and silently led the way to the book room. There was nothing more to be said.
    He thought otherwise. As they walked, he asked, “Who taught you to make a fist like that?”
    She looked around, surprised at his question. Oh dear, he was rubbing his jaw, where a fist-sized red mark stood out against his healthy complexion. It might even turn black and blue, so he would wear her brand for a sennight. Served him right. “You did. When we first met, and our fathers were closeted in the office so long.”
    â€œI thought I remembered that. You said some boys in the neighborhood were teasing you, pulling your hair. I don’t blame them.” He almost reached out to touch those golden curls himself, now that they were drying in tumbled waves down her back. She glared and he rubbed his chin again instead, pretending that was his intention all along.
    Penny put more distance between them. “You said I ought to know how to defend myself.”
    â€œDid they ever bother you again?”
    â€œNo, but not because of the fist I clenched in front of their faces.