Regency Masquerade Read Online Free PDF

cause a fuss by bringing Hartly to her table. That would get March’s attention. She looked at the wine, then at Hartly. She nodded and smiled her acceptance with great condescension.
    “Pray ask the gentleman if he would care to join us for a glass of his wine,” she said to Wilf.
    Hartly did not bother with the charade of pretending he had not heard her, thus requiring Wilf to repeat the message. He rose and went to the table, bowed, and said, “How very kind of you, ma’am, but I have already finished dinner and am having coffee. I overheard your complaint of Bullion’s wine. I take the precaution of traveling with my own. I am Daniel Hartly, by the by.”
    “What a clever idea, Mr. Hartly! Why did we not bring our own from Penworth Hall, David? I am sure Sir Aubrey’s cellar was always well stocked. Oh, you have not met my stepson, Mr. Hartly. Sir David Crieff.” Jonathon bowed. “And I am Lady Crieff,” she added, with a little laugh. “David’s stepmama! Is it not ridiculous? Of course, Sir Aubrey was decades older than I. Which is not to say I married him for his blunt,” she added firmly.
    “There is no need to inquire why the late Sir Aubrey married you, Lady Crieff,” Hartly replied, as his eyes wandered over her face, and lower to enjoy a quick appreciation of her bosoms. He saw there was no need for subtlety. The lovely lady, alas, was as common as dirt.
    “Oh, fie!” She smiled, flapping her fingers at him. “I wager you say that to all the ladies, Mr. Hartly.”
    “No indeed! Only to the married ones whose beauty merits it.”
    “Now there is a handsome compliment indeed. I see you will want watching, sir.”
    While she chattered, a part of her mind was running in a different direction. Hartly had wasted no time rushing to meet her. He seemed intent on emptying the butter boat on her. Was his aim merely to seduce a young widow, or was he playing a deeper game, one that involved Lionel March?
    Hartly bowed. “I shall try to behave. I am charmed to make your acquaintance—at last.”
    “At last?” she asked, frowning. “Why, you sound as if—”
    “Every minute seems an hour when one awaits a treat,” he said, coming to her rescue. Hartly expected a simpering smile at this trite compliment and was surprised to see a flash of amusement instead. Amusement and intelligence. By God, the hoyden was laughing at him. “Are you staying long at Owl House Inn?” he asked.
    “A few days. It depends. And you, Mr. Hartly?”
    “That also depends, madam.”
    Moira was disconcerted by his manner. His mischievous eyes suggested that his stay depended on how long she remained. She forced herself to play the flirt. Lady Crieff had not won a gouty squire twice her age by being backward, and she had to play her role to the hilt.
    She allowed her long eyelashes to flutter coquettishly. “On what does it depend, Mr. Hartly, if I am not being too indiscreet to inquire?”
    “On whether I find the company hereabouts congenial, ma’am,” he responded, gazing boldly into her eyes, until her cheeks felt warm. “I hope I have found one friend, at least,” he added.
    “I hope so indeed. We shall see whether flattery is the quickest path to friendship.”
    Hartly said what was expected of him: “Flattery?” He went on to assure her in a voice of silken insincerity that it had been no such thing.
    “Will you not bring your coffee to our table, sir?” she said. “I swear my neck is developing a crick, having to look up at you. It seems so uncivil, does it not, eating in a room with all these tables, and no one speaking to anyone else? What is the good of putting up at an inn if one is not to meet new gentle—new people?” She allowed her lashes to flutter enticingly.
    “The perils of travel.” He nodded. “One dislikes to be standoffish, yet to force an acquaintance seems just a touch vulgar. I opted for vulgarity. I should be honored to join you.”
    Wilf, who had been listening shamelessly to