The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) Read Online Free Page B

not?”
    “Pammy Girtle-Bute?” The old lady snorted. “Frightfulgel! Long past her prayers and no wonder. No looks to speak of—a perfect barrel of a girl—and those teeth!! And a crashing bore, to boot. Carries on a conversation as if she’s the only person in the room, can’t shut her up—and loud. Even the deaf are deafened. Add to that her propensity for keeping pet rats—d’you know, she took one once to a ball—carried it in her reticule—wretched creature got out, of course—you should have heard the commotion! And the smell . . .” Lady Beatrice waved her hand in front of her nose. “No, a man would have to be more than desperate to choose Pammy Girtle-Bute.”
    “Oh.” Flynn sipped his tea with a downcast air. “I’m sorry you think so.”
    The old lady stiffened. “You can’t mean it! Not Pammy Girtle-Bute!”
    He shrugged. “She
is
the daughter of a duke.”
    “But she’s utterly atrocious! You can’t possibly—”
    “I don’t want to discuss it,” Flynn said virtuously.
    “But you cannot—”
    “Delicious ginger nuts,” he said.
    “There are plenty of gels almost as well born as Pammy Girtle-Bute, but a great deal more pleas—”
    “As I said m’lady, I make me own choice.” With the air of a man who has finished talking, Flynn perused the cake plate, decided a fourth ginger nut would be too much and selected a large pastry, oozing jam and bulging with cream.
    He lifted the pastry high for a careful bite, partly to ensure he did not drip any of the cream, and partly to hide his expression from the old lady. It was a tricky operation, but when he lowered the pastry, it was to find the old lady scrutinizing him through her lorgnette with a severe expression.
    “You are a wicked, wicked tease, Mr. Flynn!”
    He finished the pastry and wiped his hands and mouth, wiping away—he hoped—any trace of a smile. “If you say so, m’lady.”
    “I do! You almost had me believing that appalling tale.”
    “Surely not, m’lady. And you so fly to the ways of the world.”
    She fixed him with a gimlet stare. “Don’t try to butterme up, you rogue! That atrocious tale could have caused me to have palpitations!
Palpitations
, I say!”
    Flynn smiled. “Palpitations? Never say so m’lad—”
    She thumped her cane on the floor. “I am a frail old woman and not to be lied to!”
    “Ah, you’re as strong as an—”
    “If you say
ox
Mr. Flynn, I shall—I shall hit you!” She gripped her cane meaningfully.
    He chuckled. “No need for violence, ma’am. I was goin’ to say as strong as an er, an elf—yes, that’s it, strong as an elf—a delicate, elegant, canny, ageless wee elf.”
    Lady Beatrice snorted. “You’re a silver-tongued rogue and a shameless rascal, Mr. Flynn.”
    “If you say so, m’lady.”
    “I do. I can’t imagine why I ever imagined that I liked you.” She gave him a long baleful stare that did its best to look stern.
    He gave her a slow grin. “Well, milady, that would no doubt be me irresistible Irish charm.”
    Her lips twitched. She pursed them ruthlessly back into an appearance of severity. “Irresistible Irish blarney, more like. Kissing that wretched stone or whatever it is that you Irish do.”
    “Now why would I bother to kiss the Blarney Stone when there are so much more enticin’ things to kiss, milady?”
    A reluctant chuckle escaped her. “You are quite, quite shameless.” Then a cunning expression came into her eyes. She wagged a bony finger at him. “You’re in need of a lesson, Mr. Flynn.”
    He quirked an eyebrow. “Am I indeed?”
    “Yes, and you’ll have it, tomorrow at four o’clock sharp.” She pointed. “Upstairs.” She regarded him with a pleased expression.
    She couldn’t possibly mean what he thought she meant. “What kind of lesson?” he asked warily.
    “A dancing lesson, Mr. Flynn. Now don’t argue—you’ll oblige me in this. Wicked man that you are, you owe it to me for the Dreadful Fright you gave