The Duke's Messenger Read Online Free Page B

Rowland.”
    “To think,” mused Lady Sanford, unfortunately aloud, “that he would offer in the end for you!”
    Nell was stung. “And why not?” She bristled. “Surely he has a right to make his own choice, and it was not Miss Freeland. He — he has a tendre for me,” said Nell, demurely. “And he is so handsome!”
    Nell slipped easily into the dream that had kept her company since she had first seen Lord Foxhall at her aunt’s ball, given in her honor when she first came to London last April. That first glimpse of dear Rowland, coming up the stairs to meet his hostess, had struck her as though with an arrow, and she still marveled at it. Her impression had been then that the god Apollo, the embodiment of physical beauty, had suddenly donned elegant evening clothes and arrived in some inexplicable fashion on her aunt’s staircase.
    Stunned by such masculine beauty, she had found in him the substance of secret dreams, both waking and sleeping. Nell’s clear adoration of him, while not obvious to her aunt, was apparent to Lord Foxhall himself. He had to that moment expected to offer for Penelope Freeland, comfortable in the persuasion that she was more than willing to accept him. His certainty that she looked upon him with favor, coupled with her regrettable tendency toward tactless instruction, led him into dilatory ways, and he had not yet declared himself when he saw a pair of speaking gray eyes, fringed with long dark lashes, looking at him with adoration.
    Lord Foxhall had moved slowly, but with deliberate intention, to make further acquaintance of this discerning miss, so different from Penelope, who was prone to point out to him his failings.
    Nell’s simple worship came as welcome balm to him.
    “But you hardly know him!” objected Lady Sanford now.
    Under judicious questioning, Nell, with faltering shyness recounted snatches of conversation held with Foxhall over the past weeks. Lady Sanford, past mistress in the interpretation of nuances, at length admitted that Nell, if mistaken, nonetheless had a reason to expect his offer — this very morning!
    Now, Nell’s dream had, quite miraculously, come true. The handsome Nonpareil was to be her very own!
    “My goodness!” cried Lady Sanford, once more able to speak. “I must say you’ve done well.”
    Nell was suddenly practical. “Dear Aunt, pray find a gown more suitable. He may be here any minute!”
    Lady Sanford glanced down at her simple poplin morning gown. “Very well,” she agreed, “though it is not I he is concerned with. It will not matter what I wear.” She considered the Incomparable Foxhall for a moment, then added, “A pity, of course.”
    “Aunt!”
    “All right, child. I shall endeavor not to embarrass you. Though I will admit he is quite the handsomest man I ever saw. But handsome, Nell, is not all there is to be desired in a husband. Sanford was far from a Greek god, you know.”
    Nell was not interested in the uncle she had never met. “Do hurry, Aunt!”
    Phrynie was caught up in Nell’s impatience. She did re-fleet, as she hurried up the stairs to change, that she would not be in the least surprised if Nell had been enchanted by moonbeams and simply misunderstood Foxhall. It was quite beyond anything that a prime catch could be interested in a modest heiress like Nell.
    Loyalty chided Lady Sanford. Nell was quite as well born as, for instance, Penelope Freeland, and there was no reason on earth why Nell did not deserve to become a countess, one day. Phrynie was a woman of the world, however, and she was aware of a lingering element of strong disbelief, not to say cynicism, in her apparent acceptance of the prospective betrothal.
    Nonetheless, obedient to Nell’s sensibilities, she changed into a gown of gray India muslin with pale green satin stripes, primly suitable for the occasion of speaking to a niece’s prospective betrothed. She had just reached the entrance hall when Foxhall arrived.
    Nell, peeping from the