Leslie Lafoy Read Online Free PDF Page A

crashing down and all of her hopes for a normal life had been extinguished. Her parents were dead, her legs were useless, and she had been shipped across the world to be thrust like damaged freight upon the kindness of a complete stranger. It would be difficult for a grown woman to adjust to such radical and unexpected changes of circumstance. For a fourteen-year-old girl …
    Her body was broken and would never be whole again. Because of that, her spirits were fragile and her emotions raw. In time, she would come to an acceptance of her limitations and life in a wheeled chair. Until then, though … he simply had to be patient and understanding. To demand that she accept on his schedule and for the ease and convenience of his household staff would be insensitive to the point of cruelty.
    If only the London gossips were even slightly interested in learning the truth of the situation, the utter impossibility of a salacious relationship. But they weren’t and he needed to make arrangements that would preserve both their reputations. If only his mother were the sort to have a bit of compassion. Or the sort to make accommodations for anyone. Sending Charlotte to her at Revel House simply wasn’t possible; the girl had been through enough already.
    He could buy her a London townhouse of her own. Or rent one for her. It would solve his problem with the rumormongers as long as he never went anywhere near the property or Charlotte. But doing so seemed a bit too much like warehousing her for him to be entirely comfortable with the solution.
    The other alternative was to simply ride out the whispers until he found a suitable woman and hauled her into the house as his wife. Not only would the gossips stop speculating, but he could hand the day-to-day management of Charlotte off to his bride. Women did tend to know how to handle the messier and more dramatic aspects of people.
    As for picking the lucky woman, maybe he should just have Harry write all their names down on little slips of paper, put them into a hat, and then blindly draw one out. God knew he didn’t care one way or the other for any of them. One would do just as well as the next. They were all daughters of privilege; they knew how to run households, could ably fulfill the expectations of society, and would do their duty in terms of providing the necessary heir and a spare or two.
    Beyond those simple requirements, as long as he provided adequate financial support and was reasonably discreet with his lovers, she would be the picture of perfect wifely contentment and all would be well in the kingdom. Both his and the Queen’s.
    He sat back in his leather chair and considered a possible timetable. Harry would call as usual at ten. Ian checked the clock on the mantel. Eight hours from now. It would take only a few moments to fill a hat with names and pull one out. After that, he could trot out to inform the father of the bride-elect of his good fortune and make arrangements for an engagement announcement at Lady Miller-Sands’ that evening. On the way home, he could stop by the apothecary shop for the letters.
    Yes, quite doable. All of his problems would be solved. His mother would be pleased to hear that he was tending to his duties. The gossipmongers would cease their prattling over Charlotte’s presence in his house. And somewhere in a dark corner of the Miller-Sandses’ property, before the betrothal announcement was made, he would lift up Lady Baltrip’s skirts, press her hard against a wall and assure her that his pending marriage was only going to add another very nice edge to their relationship. She would be delighted by the prospects, of course. Lady Baltrip liked edges every bit as much as he did.
    Ian lifted his brandy glass in salute to himself and the sheer brilliance and perfect workability of his plan.
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    Certain of her course and determined to quickly see it through no matter the cost, Fiona shifted the bundle in her arm, freed her hand,