The Primrose Path Read Online Free PDF
Author: Bárbara Metzger
sure the chair behind her was empty. Drat the man for making her so angry she forgot herself. It was all his fault. Since she’d already blotted her copybook with his high-and-mighty lordship, Angelina decided she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb and air another of her grievances. After all, she might work for her wages, but he wasn’t the one who wrote the checks. “Lest you think the animals are neglected, my lord, by myself and the other ‘paid servants,’ the local children come in the mornings to help exercise the dogs. They come in exchange for lessons, because their patron, their landlord and resident potentate, hasn’t bothered to hire a new schoolteacher since the last one ran off with Jeb Allen’s daughter.”
Damnation, another black mark against him! He’d forgotten all about telling his London secretary to see about filling the position. Corin didn’t take his seat—the wretched female hadn’t invited him to, and for now it was her house—but crossed to the window, which was open. This time he knew better than to close it, although he didn’t see the old bulldog, only the three little beggars at Miss Armstead’s feet, under the tea tray. The day was warm enough anyway, though growing overcast, and his war-injured thigh was telling him foul weather was approaching. About as foul as his mood, to be so in the wrong so often with this cursed ape leader, in whose debt he now found himself. Knowing the answer beforehand, he still had to ask, “Who is it, then, who gives the children their lessons?”
Angelina merely nodded.
“Damn. I mean it was devilish good of you to take on the chore, Miss Armstead. I’ll find someone for the position as soon as possible.”
Angelina was busy crumbling bits of scone for the Yorkshire terriers. She nodded again, hoping his lordship would leave.
Corin couldn’t go, not without getting the dogs and their duenna out of this house. Blast the woman for being a moralizing idealist anyway, with all her talk of loving the little beasties and honoring his aunt’s last wishes. Hah! Most likely she was simply afraid of losing her lucrative sinecure. Miss Armstead could stay here, collecting her ridiculously exorbitant salary, for what? Ten or twelve years or however long one of these creatures lived. She’d be a moderately wealthy woman if she didn’t spend her blunt before then, but she’d also be ten years older, ten years less likely to snabble a husband, whereas if she had even half the cash now, and a more fashionable appearance ... His lordship sat down abruptly, invited or not. “Miss Armstead, I have a proposition for you.”
The rest of the scone fell out of Angelina’s fingers, but Corin was too rapt in his new scheme to notice. Money was the answer, by George. “I propose to pay you what you would have earned here in five years if you’ll give me the dogs. They’ll be well cared for, and you can set yourself up in a cozy house someplace else, someplace like Bath or even London, where you might meet eligible gentlemen while you still have your, ah, first blush of youth.”
Angelina was blushing, all right, but at her own assumptions, not the viscount’s heavy-handed attempt to buy her out of Primrose Cottage. Lord Knowle’s reputation, though, and the way he’d stared at her, had her expecting a slip on the shoulder. She should have known better. His lordship was known to patronize only the highest-flying birds-of-paradise, not drab ladies’ companions. Then again, he should have known better than to offer her money. “My lord, your aunt was kinder to me than anyone else in my life. I could not repay her so shabbily.”
Shabbily? “Seven years’ salary and a new wardrobe.”
“You forget yourself. Lord Knowle. Money might mean everything in your world. It does not in mine.”
“Very well, ten years’, and my mother will introduce you to some of her cronies’ sons and nephews.”
Angelina’s cheeks were scarlet by now. How
Damnation, another black mark against him! He’d forgotten all about telling his London secretary to see about filling the position. Corin didn’t take his seat—the wretched female hadn’t invited him to, and for now it was her house—but crossed to the window, which was open. This time he knew better than to close it, although he didn’t see the old bulldog, only the three little beggars at Miss Armstead’s feet, under the tea tray. The day was warm enough anyway, though growing overcast, and his war-injured thigh was telling him foul weather was approaching. About as foul as his mood, to be so in the wrong so often with this cursed ape leader, in whose debt he now found himself. Knowing the answer beforehand, he still had to ask, “Who is it, then, who gives the children their lessons?”
Angelina merely nodded.
“Damn. I mean it was devilish good of you to take on the chore, Miss Armstead. I’ll find someone for the position as soon as possible.”
Angelina was busy crumbling bits of scone for the Yorkshire terriers. She nodded again, hoping his lordship would leave.
Corin couldn’t go, not without getting the dogs and their duenna out of this house. Blast the woman for being a moralizing idealist anyway, with all her talk of loving the little beasties and honoring his aunt’s last wishes. Hah! Most likely she was simply afraid of losing her lucrative sinecure. Miss Armstead could stay here, collecting her ridiculously exorbitant salary, for what? Ten or twelve years or however long one of these creatures lived. She’d be a moderately wealthy woman if she didn’t spend her blunt before then, but she’d also be ten years older, ten years less likely to snabble a husband, whereas if she had even half the cash now, and a more fashionable appearance ... His lordship sat down abruptly, invited or not. “Miss Armstead, I have a proposition for you.”
The rest of the scone fell out of Angelina’s fingers, but Corin was too rapt in his new scheme to notice. Money was the answer, by George. “I propose to pay you what you would have earned here in five years if you’ll give me the dogs. They’ll be well cared for, and you can set yourself up in a cozy house someplace else, someplace like Bath or even London, where you might meet eligible gentlemen while you still have your, ah, first blush of youth.”
Angelina was blushing, all right, but at her own assumptions, not the viscount’s heavy-handed attempt to buy her out of Primrose Cottage. Lord Knowle’s reputation, though, and the way he’d stared at her, had her expecting a slip on the shoulder. She should have known better. His lordship was known to patronize only the highest-flying birds-of-paradise, not drab ladies’ companions. Then again, he should have known better than to offer her money. “My lord, your aunt was kinder to me than anyone else in my life. I could not repay her so shabbily.”
Shabbily? “Seven years’ salary and a new wardrobe.”
“You forget yourself. Lord Knowle. Money might mean everything in your world. It does not in mine.”
“Very well, ten years’, and my mother will introduce you to some of her cronies’ sons and nephews.”
Angelina’s cheeks were scarlet by now. How