The Savage Miss Saxon Read Online Free PDF Page A

not that her physical appearance lessened or heightened the chit’s degree of compromise a whit—but at least the next generation of Mannerings need not fear going through life with humped noses or the curse of a decided squint.
    It is amazing, he reflected as he watched the thin sunlight set off answering glimmers in Miss Saxon’s truly glorious mane of hair, how I could go to bed one night a dedicated bachelor and find myself committed to marriage before luncheon of the following day. Ah well, so much for resolutions. I might beat dear Helene to the altar after all—I wonder if it is socially acceptable to marry before the woman who jilted you can sweep her way down the aisle of St. George’s?
    This self-satisfying thought caused a small smile to come to his lips, and feeling a bit more charitable toward the young woman just then staring out the off-window with an intensity that would make a person believe she had never seen an apple orchard before, he decided to make an attempt at polite conversation.
    As to a topic, Nicholas had no need to stretch his imagination—the estimable Harold certainly would do for a start. So thinking, he cleared his throat and ventured, “Miss Saxon? I hope I do not intrude on some profound thought, but I admit to a small curiosity about your traveling companion. Do you feel you could perhaps satisfy this unseemly indulgence of nosiness?”
    Alexandra, although she would never admit to it, had been feeling more and more apprehensive with each turn of the carriage wheels that brought her closer to her initial meeting with her grandfather. What if he turned her away from his door without so much as a hearing? It was bad enough when she only had to consider how well he would accept her existence. To be handed a further blow to the family escutcheon in the form of her being so featherbrained as to make her presence known in the area by sleeping in entirely the wrong bed was certainly pushing her luck.
    So if Lord Linton wanted to pass the time with idle conversation—conversation that just possibly could keep her mind off her troubles—she was more than happy to oblige him. “What is it about Harold that you wish to know, my lord?” she asked sweetly, acting as if her black-faced companion was come from a variety of species as common to England as turnips.
    Nicholas smiled, reading her tongue-in-cheek response quite clearly. “For openers, I’d say an explanation of how he comes to be in your life at all might prove enough to capture my attention. After all, although I am not that familiar with your country, I do believe Philadelphia to have been fairly free of Indian attack for quite a few years now. And an Indian named Harold? Those I imagine to be as scarce as hen’s teeth most anywhere in America. You realize, of course, that m’brother’s sense of high adventure was dealt a mighty blow when first he heard Harold’s name. I am sure he had been banking on some appellation a bit more, shall we say, exotic .”
    “Harold,” Alexandra admitted, “ is quite singular—even in America—although I have become accustomed to him, seeing that he has been about ever since I was a child. Chas—my father, if you remember—was a particular patron of the museum Charles Wilson Peale set up in Philadelphia in, oh, about 1790 I think it was. This museum was devoted to displays of tomahawks, wampum, scalps, and other sundry Indian artifacts—all set against a suitably realistic background designed to resemble a forest. It was quite an impressive spectacle, I assure you. Chas was quite proud of his association with the scheme. Well,” she expanded, “as part of this display they had caused to be set up a miniature version of an Indian village, complete with a full-size wigwam. One day it was merely a stage setting depicting an Indian residence, and the next it was occupied by friend Harold.
    “Chas said he never did figure out where Harold came from or how he discovered the museum. All