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

normal senses. At first she was startled by his rudeness. Nay, she justified, he was simply inquisitive. Shocked by her advanced age, he had been unable to restrain his curiosity. Furthermore, his question was certainly no more rude than her question about his leg.
    â€œI prefer a more independent path,” she said. “I cannot accept the fact that everything we are, everything we can ever aspire to be, is contained within the duties of daughter, sister, wife, and mother.” Her explanation sounded shrill and false, even to her own ears, though he made no comment.
    They danced past the orchestra, the statues from Italy in their wall niches, the portrait of Penelope Beresford above the mantelpiece. They passed the chaperones and young ladies seated in the chairs lining either side of the room, then the orchestra again.
    â€œAfter reading your books, I had pictured you far differently,” he said.
    Elizabeth imagined his disappointment. Undoubtedly, he expected her to be like her heroines. True, they were somewhat vapid. But they were also sprightly and witty, amusing their male partners. They were sweet and compliant, so as not to arouse tempers. They were pure and self-controlled, successfully elevating morals—except when they were being ravished by monks and debauched kings. In other words, her heroines were the perfect complement to a man, something she could never be.
    â€œHow did you picture me?” she asked bluntly, abandoning any pretense at witty, sweet, and compliant.
    His gaze lingered on her bosom, and she was certain he disapproved of her décolletage. He probably expected her to wear a high-necked muslin frock patterned with dainty flowers.
    â€œI think you are a very formidable force,” he said.
    A lady might be described in many ways but formidable could never be construed as a compliment. Elizabeth searched desperately for something clever to say, or better yet, something innocuous. “Where are you from?” she finally managed. “Your accent tells me you’re not from these parts.”
    â€œI’ve lived in many parts of England. In my business I travel a good deal.”
    â€œAnd what business are you in?” Judging from his clothes, it was a profitable one.
    But he merely shook his head. Elizabeth could smell food and burning candles and the faint sandalwood scent of John himself. She glimpsed their reflection in the wall mirror, the brightness of her scarlet gown and his deep blue jacket. Chandeliers shed their sparkle-bright tears while wooden cherubim seemed to swoop down from the rococo moldings. The music drifted to an end. Without asking, John ushered her outside, onto the terrace.
    ***
    The boldness of Elizabeth Wyndham’s gaze and her forthright manner perfectly suited her lush sensuality, Rand thought. As they paused at the railing, his inner voice warned him to lead her back to her drum, then return to the safety of the Rookery. On the other hand, he felt an overwhelming conviction that his first inclination had been correct. They were connected in some bizarre manner, for he had never been so powerfully attracted to a woman. In fact, during their dance, his mind had danced with images of lovemaking. He felt as if he already knew every enticing inch of her body.
    He forced himself to keep his gaze on the starless sky. “You’re from the Yorkshire Dales, are you not?”
    â€œYou’ve done a bit of checking on me, sir. I’m flattered.”
    â€œI’ve never been to the Dales,” Rand stated, thinking that the sultry air smelled strongly of coal ash, and more faintly of Elizabeth’s perfume. Thank God he had introduced himself as John Randolph, an alias he frequently employed. The name Rand Remington was not unknown in London. After all, he had been a war hero, fussed over and feted by the very same aristocracy he now robbed.
    He had instinctively withheld his name from the beautiful woman who stood by his