The Wagered Miss Winslow Read Online Free PDF

be fair, if the man thought Niall was in charge, that might excuse his poor opinion. Her brother, for all his air of superiority, was not fit to mind mice at a crossroads, which was why their father had been so careful to install competent managers at the other three Winslow properties.
    Three competent managers and herself, that is. Her father had known she would take exemplary care of Winslow Manor. Why, he had even more than once lamented within her brother’s hearing that the wrong Winslow was wearing the skirts! Niall had never forgiven him, or her, for that insult.
    But all of this was now neither here nor there. Niall had something up his sleeve, some nasty reason for tricking this oddly intriguing man and setting her up for what, she was sure, would amount to more than a fair bit of bother. But Niall may have overstepped himself with this particular prank, for she felt certain that Beaumont Remington, this strange mixture of arrogant Englishman and, to her trained ear, Irish peasant, would not take kindly to deception.
    “Ah, here is Sam with the wagon, Mr. Remington. I’ll allow him to take things from here. Please don’t worry about the scarf, for it is old and I shan’t miss it. Come, Mollie,” she called in a clear voice, already heading for the pony cart. “It is time we were heading home. Riggs will be beside himself, forced to act the martyr with no one there to witness his travail.” She wished to get clear of Sam Hackett before he called her by name and gave the game away before she could even make her first move.
    “Yes, miss,” Mollie answered reluctantly, as Sam Hackett went to loose the bays from the shafts. She took a moment to steal yet another look at the handsome Mr. Remington. Were there ever shoulders so broad, she wondered, a waist so nipped, legs so strong and straight? His hair as dark as night, his eyes the color of a cloudless sky at noon, his face all lines and angles, without so much as a hint of softness. He was a god, that’s what he was, one of those Greek or Roman gods like Miss Winslow showed her pictures of in those books of hers. Even with his traveling clothes all dusty from his fall, and with his arm trussed up in Miss Winslow’s blue scarf, Beaumont Remington was bigger than life, bigger and better than Jake, the ostler at the Grapes and Hoops, better than Ned, the second cook at the Three Feathers, and even better than Willie Shanks, the chandler’s apprentice and the one real love in her life—this week.
    So taken was Mollie that, as her mistress wielded the reins of the pony cart and she sat herself on the bed of the cart, her legs dangling over the rear edge, she waved good-bye to the man until a turn of the lane took them completely out of sight. And Mr. Remington, bless his heart, had waved back to her. Willie Shanks? Hah! He couldn’t hold a candle to Mr. Beaumont Remington. Mollie leaned back in the cart, smiling dreamily, in love for the third time that month.
    And so, Beaumont “Bobby” Remington had come to East Sussex and, although his journey had not been without minor mishap, he had succeeded in making a favorable impression upon at least one of the local inhabitants.
    Her mistress, sitting ramrod-stiff on the seat of the pony cart, was another matter entirely. Her mind was tumbling over itself with questions that had no answers. And, she knew, there would be no time to get those answers, for Niall was safely tucked up in London, with no hope of being reached. Besides, if she could magically transport herself into his presence, she would be entirely too involved in beating him heavily about the head and shoulders with her riding crop to pay much attention to his explanation—an explanation that would undoubtedly serve no purpose except to prove once more that her brother was a mean, revengeful, petty creature.
    No, she would have to deal with this man, this Beaumont Remington, by herself. With only Riggs, a single young groom of limited wit, and a