The Reluctant Husband Read Online Free Page A

needed to return to Dacre House to meet his betrothed.
    Instead of finding friends at Angelo’s fencing salon, Ormiston found only a fencing master at a loose end. The man was newly from Italy and gave Ormiston a thorough practice with some new maneuvers. When he heard that the young man was hoping to go to Venice, the fencing master gave him the names of two people from whom he might learn a little more and wished him well for his journey.
    So it was that Ormiston found himself back at Dacre House well before the appointed hour of his meeting with the Marchmonts and the lawyers. He found his sketchbook, then ran down to the garden and sat by the fountain, the centerpiece of which was a statue of Hercules overcoming the Nemean Lion. He was soon absorbed by the complexities of shadow and light on the black marble, the problems of rendering accurately the snarl on the lion’s features, echoed by Hercules’s own pained brow and twisted mouth. When he was drawing, he noticed nothing else, so he was unaware that from the library, a girl was watching him.
    Within, Cecilia and Marchmont had arrived promptly, followed soon after by lawyers representing both families. All were ushered into the library while the servants were sent in search of the viscount. The men were discussing the price of corn imports and duties, so she drifted away to the windows, conscious of the discomfort of her tight dress and the corset, which had required the wrestling of two maidservants to fasten, and the prickling of overstarched petticoats. Like a shaggy pony in the heat, she longed to find a convenient tree or column and ease the itch between her shoulder blades, roll in the mud, and free herself of all ribbons and ties that bound her.
    Then, looking into the garden, she saw a young man intent on his drawing, glancing up at the statue he was trying to capture on the page, every particle of his being concentrating on the task at hand. He was slim, and he shared his father’s dark coloring, with almost swarthy skin and a thick head of hair. But his features were altogether more refined than Dacre’s pug-like nose, heavy brows, and jowly cheeks.
    The young man’s mouth appeared wide, given the narrowness of his face, and his nose was of an elegant length. He had a high brow and neat eyebrows. His eyes were squeezed tight in concentration and against the sun, which now shone into the garden directly behind the statue’s head. His chin was definite, and his neck was long, his shoulders broad. His clothes were all black and somewhat dusty. His coat was shabby, his cravat untied and dangling, his shirt points wilted, his boots scuffed, and his unmentionables skintight, molded over muscled thighs. Later, she was unsure whether it was the constriction of her clothes or the sight of this Adonis that caused her breathlessness and a sudden flush to rise unbecomingly to her face. She turned back to the room.
    â€œIs the young man in the garden Viscount Ormiston?”
    Dacre came over and gave an affirmative, unimpressed grunt. Marchmont came to stand behind his daughter, his hands on her shoulders. Watching thus, they saw a servant approaching tentatively, then breaking the concentration of the young man. He scowled, but packed away his things and followed without delay.
    Minutes later, Ormiston came into the library and sketched a cursory bow. He mumbled an apology, then looked at Cecilia, who at that moment saw uncertainty and then distaste flitting across the viscount’s face. She could not be sure, for he swiftly took her hand and bowed once again as he kissed it. By the time he straightened, his features were schooled into bland impassivity.
    â€œThe papers are ready for signing, your lordship,” said one of the lawyers, and the group gathered around the desk to put their names to the documents that safeguarded Cecilia’s dowry and provided detailed particulars of the calls that might be made on Ormiston’s purse