The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter Read Online Free PDF

had once paid court to her?
    Noodle-head! She would have remembered that lithe body, so straight and tall. Maybe she had seen him earlier in the day, or last Sunday at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Maybe she had caught a glimpse of him from her window, or perhaps he had visited her father’s inn.
    But I would have remembered.
    â€œExcuse me.” Heedless of the surprised looks and raised eyebrows, Elizabeth wove her way through a blur of figures. The music, the rustle of skirts, the coughs and snuff-sneezes, the laughter and conversation all faded from her consciousness as she felt the room contract. However, once she was face to face with the stranger, she couldn’t find anything to say.
    This is absurd, she thought, striving to calm her racing pulse. In the Dales she had been proposed to more times than a month had days, and she discarded men as easily as she discarded the used nibs from her quill. Yet now she was virtually struck dumb.
    â€œWho are you?” she finally blurted, and was immediately horrified by her faux pas. A lady must never initiate a conversation lest she be considered guilty of “too warm desires.” A lady could only respond after a man had shown interest in her. And yet here she stood, Elizabeth Wyndham, heroine-for-a-night, behaving with all the subtlety of a streetwalker.
    Rather than registering his disapproval, the stranger merely bowed and said, “My name is John Randolph. And you are the famed B.B. Wyndham.”
    â€œYes.” Elizabeth was struck by the raven color of his hair, which made his eyes appear even more blue. Her novelist’s brain swiftly catalogued the strong line of his jaw, his full mouth, and his long, lean body. Most gentlemen used paint and strategically placed padding, but Mr. Randolph needed no such artifice to enhance his rugged good looks.
    â€œWhat does the B.B. stand for?” he asked. “Bonny Bess?”
    Elizabeth despised women who blushed, and yet she felt her cheeks flame. “Barbara Brownmiller,” she replied. “’Tis my mother’s name. She was my inspiration and…” Elizabeth swallowed. “I have the oddest feeling we’ve met before, sir. Where might that have been?”
    â€œI’ve recently been introduced to your books,” he said, sidestepping her question. “I find them fascinating. Or perhaps I should say disturbing.”
    â€œI know we’ve met before,” she insisted, although ordinarily she would have challenged the word disturbing. “Have you ever visited the Inn of the White Hart? Or the Theatre Royal in York?”
    He shook his head. “I’m sure I would have remembered.”
    â€œAre you suggesting that I do not remember?”
    â€œNo. I meant it as a compliment, Miss Wyndham.”
    â€œDance with me, John Randolph,” she said, and was again astonished by her boldness. She prayed that no one had overheard. Hellfire! Her reputation would be forever ruined. She waited for a caustic reply, or even a polite repudiation, but he made no reference to her bad manners.
    His eyes, she decided, were the color of the North Sea. She had used that phrase when she had penned her description of Ralf Darkstarre’s eyes.
    â€œWhat happened to your leg?” she asked, as they took their place among the line of couples.
    â€œThe War with the Colonies.”
    â€œYou dance very well, despite your limp.”
    â€œI have wondered how we’d meet,” he said.
    Although he remained at a discreet distance, Elizabeth felt as if the earth had shifted beneath her feet, as if the very room had tilted. Why? Ordinarily, the warmth of a man’s gaze wouldn’t be unsettling. On the contrary, it would be invigorating. Or boring. What had Mr. Randolph just said about her writing? About Castles of Doom ? It was so difficult to concentrate.
    â€œWhy is it you’ve never married?” he asked.
    His words brought her back to her senses, her