The True Love Wedding Dress Read Online Free PDF Page B

done his worst. “But I insist on making good for my clumsiness.”
    His tone must have brought her out of her reverie, for now Mrs. Cole finally took notice of the trespasser in her garden. He could see her eyes shift to the pitchfork, too far away to be any protection from a marauder, then to his hand reaching for his purse—or a pistol. She took a step back, her boots squelching in the mire, but the ruined gown stayed pressed to her chest, befouling her cloak, too, which was no great loss that the viscount could tell.
    “I could not accept money from a stranger.”
    “But I am not truly a stranger.” He bowed, a gob of mud falling from his chin. “Tanyon Wellforde, at your service.”
    “Oh, you are one of Mr. Gerald Wellforde’s relations then.” She relaxed a bit, although keeping her distance and not, thankfully, offering her filthy hand for him to kiss. “The wedding is not for a few weeks, however. You are early.”
    “Actually, I am Viscount Forde, Gerald’s uncle and guardian,” he said, sounding somewhat pompous even to his own ears. He was insulted that this countrywoman in her shabby cloak would think him so skitter-witted that he did not know the time or the place. Granted he had fallen off his horse and taken down her clothesline, but he did know the date of his own nephew’s wedding: It was soon, or he would not be here.
    “Gerald’s uncle Tanyon?” she asked, a hint of doubt in her voice. “He is always singing your praises.” Gerald had always raved what a bruising rider his uncle was. His lordship would be bruised, all right, from flying over his horse’s head. Gerald also claimed the viscount was a tailor’s delight, with half the gentlemen in London wanting to emulate his style. He would make his tailor rich, needing a new suit. And he was as downy as they came, Gerald had claimed. Yes, those were chicken feathers in his hair.
    “Gerald—Mr. Wellforde, that is—is not here.”
    “Yes, I know, madam.” Now Forde was more aggravated that she was still treating him like an attics-to-let jackass. He was muddied and battered, but he did not have bats in his belfry. “He is in Hampshire.”
    She nodded, seemingly reassured that he truly was Gerald’s famous uncle. “We expect him at week’s end, for the next calling of the banns.”
    Forde had come to prevent that very thing. He could feel his face growing warm, the only part of him that was. With any luck the mud would hide the telltale color of his muddled misrepresentation. “I, ah, came to see you and Miss Cole.”
    “Why?” she asked, too bluntly for his taste. He turned and spit a feather out of his mouth.
    Why? “About the, ah, settlements. That is what guardians do, you know.”
    “I already gave Gerald my solicitor’s direction.”
    And she gave Forde her back, more concerned with counting the buttons on the blasted gown than the fact that he was damp to the bone and stank like a pig. Lud, did she keep pigs in this swamp of a yard, too? Instead of being invited inside for a hot drink or a warm bath, as any lady would have offered, Forde felt a cold drizzle dripping down his neck, mingling with the mud. His heart was growing colder, too. He might have felt sorry for the beautiful widow, mourning her dead husband and her gown—but his toes were growing numb, by Harry. “I thought I should meet you and Miss Cole before the ceremony.”
    “I see.” And he thought she did, as she turned and eyed him with suspicion again, this time a lioness ready to defend her cub. She knew he was here to inspect his nephew’s prospective bride, to pass judgment. She also knew he could delay the wedding, if not cancel it altogether. “My daughter is not here, either. She is at the rectory, arranging flowers for the church. She will stay there until the storm passes.” As anyone with an iota of sense would do, her expression seemed to say, instead of riding across wet ground on an unfamiliar horse in a threatening storm, on the