Jo Beverley - [Malloren] Read Online Free PDF Page B

Rosamunde snuggled into her own bed—which by now was unwelcomingly cold. Her sense of the ridiculous soon returned, however. Why had she imagined that a sick man would awake cured and full of amorous intent?
    Such foolishness.
    She wished he had, though. Then, it would be over.
    She turned, punching her pillow, feeling wretched about something….
    Then she remembered. Remembered thinking about her dull life. It was the sort of thought she didn’t normally let out.
    She had a lovely life. A kind husband. A comfortable home, and a prosperous estate that provided plenty of useful work. Loving family nearby. Good friends all around.
    The accident could have made her a recluse for life, but Digby had rescued her with his kind offer of marriage.
    What was a recluse, though? Even someone who lived in a community could be considered a recluse if she never left it. If she was afraid to. The recent trip to Harrogate had been her first venture out of Wensleydale in eight years.
    So? She turned and punched her pillow again. Plenty of people were content to stay close to a good home. There were people in Wensleydale who’d never even been to Richmond!
    So—the truth was that she wasn’t happy living that way. Instead, she felt barred from the world by her face.
    She fingered the scar ridges to the right of her eye. They weren’t the problem. It was the long one down her cheek that made her hide away, even though her family and Diana kept saying it wasn’t really so bad.
    Even Digby, however, preferred to sit to her left.
    Dear Digby. As a friend of her father’s and an honorary uncle, she’d loved him all her life. But not, she was coming to realize, as a wife should love a husband. She hadn’t known that at sixteen, however, hadn’t know how wrong it would feel when he claimed his husbandly rights. It had never been terrible, just not something she and Sir Digby Overton should be doing.
    She’d been relieved when the activity had ceased and they could be comfortable together again.
    Until now.
    Now, however, she had to have a child. She
owed
it to Digby, to Wenscote, to everyone who had been so kind to her these past eight years.
    Anyway—and this shamed her—she wanted Wenscote for herself. Without a child, when Digby died, she’d have to leave. Leave her sanctuary. Leave the place where she had powers and responsibilities.
    Digby was a fair landlord, but not an adventurous one. It had been Rosamunde who’d started sheep-breeding projects, and growing winter fodder. She’d put the cottage industries—cheese making, spinning, and weaving—on a more orderly footing, and made sure everyone received a fair price. And, her true enthusiasm, she’d started breeding horses.
    It had all come about out of boredom, but she knew she’d stumbled upon her life’s purpose. Where was she going to find the like if she lost Wenscote? It wasn’t even considered proper in most circles for women to be directly involved in animal breeding.
    So there it was. In the open at last. She wasn’t being a martyr. She was serving her own ends. True, many people would benefit if she went through with this, but at heart she was being ruthlessly selfish.
    So be it. She still had reason enough, and the means.
    A stud animal, she thought firmly. She was used to evaluating rams and stallions, and this one was healthy and well-formed. What more did she want? Was she still hoping for a dashing knight on a white charger?
    A dashing knight would doubtless be a great deal of trouble. Her drunken wastrel would do his business, like Samuel her best tup, then move on to another ewe without a thought.
    She heaved herself onto her back with a wretched sigh, wishing she could get to sleep. Problems were niggling at her, however.
    Even she knew young men didn’t leap onto every woman they encountered. A fine state of affairs that would be! She suppressed a chuckle at the thought of a country fair—or even church on Sunday!—with all the men acting like