Lord Perfect Read Online Free Page A

contemptibly
small wage, and the working conditions would ruin her eyesight and
health. She was ill-qualified for any other occupation—any
other respectable occupation, that is.
    If she was not respectable, her daughter could not be.
If Olivia was not respectable, she could not marry well.
    Later ,
Bathsheba counseled herself. She would fret about the future later,
after her daughter was in bed. It would give her something productive
to think about.
    Instead of him .
    The Earl of Hargate's heir, of all men.
    Not merely a bored aristocrat, but a famous one.
    Lord Perfect ,
people called him, because Rathbourne never put a foot wrong.
    If he hadn't identified himself, Bathsheba might have
lingered. It was hard to resist the dark eyes, especially, though she
couldn't say why, exactly.
    All she knew was that those eyes had very nearly made
her lose her resolve and turn back.
    But to what end?
    Nothing good could come of knowing him.
    He was not at all like her late husband. Jack Wingate
was an earl's younger son with no sense of responsibility and as
little affection for his family as she had for hers, though for
different reasons.
    Lord Rathbourne was another species. Though he, too, was
a member of one of England's most prominent families, his was also
one of the most tightly knit. Furthermore, all she'd ever heard and
read about him led to one conclusion: He was the embodiment of the
noble ideal, everything aristocrats ought to be but so seldom were.
He had high standards, a powerful sense of duty—oh, what did
the details matter? The scandal sheets never mentioned him. When his
name appeared in print—as it did regularly—it was on
account of some noble or clever or brave thing he'd done or said.
    He was perfect .
    And this paragon had turned out to be anything but the
pompous bore she'd pictured.
    To such a man—as was the case with nearly all
responsible men of rank—her only possible role was mistress. In
short, she must erase him completely from her mind.
    They had reached the fringes of Holborn. They'd soon be
home. Bathsheba must think about purchasing food. She'd barely enough
money left for tea. She debated whether those supplies could be
stretched to make supper, with something left over for tomorrow's
breakfast. This awareness—along with the recollection of the
dark eyes and the deep voice and long legs and broad shoulders, and
the ache of regret the recollection caused—made her speak more
sharply than usual.
    "I wish you would remember that, unlike Lady This
or Lord That, you are not in a position of privilege," she told
her daughter. "If you wish to be accepted among respectable
people, you must abide by their rales. You are growing too old to be
a hoyden. In a few years, you will be ready to marry. All your future
will depend upon your husband. What man of integrity, with a position
to uphold, will wish to place his future happiness and his children's
in the hands of an undisciplined, ignorant, and ill-mannered girl?"
    Olivia's expression became subdued.
    Instantly Bathsheba was sorry. Her daughter was bold and
energetic, adventurous and imaginative. One hated to quell her strong
spirit.
    But one had no choice.
    With a proper education, the right manners, and a little
luck, Olivia would find a suitable husband. Not an aristocrat, no,
certainly not. While Bathsheba did not regret marrying the man she
loved, she'd rather Olivia did not experience the hardships that
resulted from such a misalliance.
    Bathsheba's hopes were modest enough. She wanted Olivia
to be loved, well treated, and securely provided for. A barrister or
a physician or other professional man would be perfect. But a
respectable tradesman—a linen-draper or bookseller or
stationer—would be acceptable, too.
    As to wealth, it would be enough if the marriage spared
her daughter her own worries and the dispiriting exercise of making a
small, erratic income stretch beyond its limits.
    If all went well, Olivia would never have to fret