Call of the Wild Wind (Waterloo Heroes Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

a wraith. “Darling. You only have two months left.”
    Ah. The anguish in her mother’s tone rocked through her. “I know,” she said. “I will find him. I know I will.”
    Thankfully, the men made their entrance then, effectively scuttling this very familiar and painful conversation. When Mama asked Britannia to play, she sat at the pianoforte and began a sprightly piece.
    The men launched into another political conversation as she played, this time something interesting about the exotic pirate sheikhs who were raiding ships of the East India Company off the coast of Egypt.
    She wanted to join in the conversation, but it was her role to play the pianoforte. To look pretty and entertain.
    Not for the first time, she strained against the convention that conscribed her life. 
    How wonderful it must be to be a man. Free to act as one pleased. Unburdened with the expectations of society. Why, men could do whatever they wanted, and they often did. It was perhaps childish of her, but when she finished her song, she rose and wandered back to the window. She simply didn’t have it in her to play another piece.
    The others, engaged in their discussion on how to deal with the brigands along the Ivory Coast, didn’t even seem to notice.
    Well, one did.
    She felt his presence behind her before he spoke.
    “You play very well, Lady Britannia.”
    Damn. His accent caused skitters of some foreign emotion to dance over her skin. Surely it was not delight.
    “Thank you, my lord.” She nodded in his general direction without making eye contact. He was far too close for any kind of contact to be safe.
    “Do you sing as well?”
    Before she could stop herself, she whipped around and gaped at him. His gaze locked with hers. For some reason her breath hitched. For a timeless moment, they stared at each other. Britannia struggled to maintain her reserve, but her smile overcame her. “Yes,” she said. “I do sing.”
    “I should love to hear you.” He seemed sincere, poor thing. He had no idea.
    “I doubt that.”
    His expression blanked for a second and then he leaned closer, so close she could smell the hint of port on his breath. “Whatever can you mean?”
    She stepped away—just a bit, just so his heat didn’t singe her so—and offered a rueful smile. “My singing voice has been likened to a peacock in death throes.” And a dog baying at the moon. And the cry of a very damp cat. Peter was nothing if not illustrative in his teasing.
    “I cannot believe that. You are far too lovely.”
    Britannia blinked. For one thing, this was the first time she and the Annoying Earl of Wick had had anything even resembling a private and personal conversation. It was also the only time he had mentioned her beauty.
    Also, “Whatever does one’s looks have to do with one’s singing voice?”
    Apparently her question threw him off his game. The earl went a trifle pale and his Adam’s apple worked. He glanced at Caesar and all of a sudden, Britannia saw this for what it was. Clearly her brother had urged the earl to approach her. No doubt he was in league with their parents, who saw each man who wandered into her auspices as a potential spouse.
    And the earl, no doubt, thought a few kind words would have her melting and swooning in his arms. Thankfully she was not a woman easily cozened. She was not the swooning sort.
    Besides, he was not genuinely interested in her. How could he be? In her mourning dress she resembled a tall, too-curvy raven.
    “You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said in a whisper.
    The earl’s brow furrowed. She tried not to notice what a fascinating furrow it was. “Do what?”
    “Pretend to be interested in me.”
    He reared back. “What makes you think I am pretending?”
    She shook her head. “Of course you are. Look at me.” She gestured to her person.
    “You are lovely.”
    Oh dear. Perhaps he was interested. She swallowed heavily and said what she always said when a man stepped too close.