The Wagered Widow Read Online Free PDF

tonight!”
    They enjoyed a light dinner at the charming flat of Lord Graham Fortescue, a good-humoured Tulip of the ton, who enjoyed the rather dubious distinction of being often referred to as “that young fribble who’s a bosom bow of Snow Boothe.” His lordship journeyed with them to the ball, and it soon became apparent that Albinia’s expressed hopes for her niece had been a trifle premature. They had turned onto Clarges Street and taken their place in the procession of vehicles discharging guests before Sir Peter Ward’s large house, when Mrs. Boothe exclaimed excitedly, “Look, Becky! Only look at that glorious gown! And the wig! I never saw anything so elegant! Who is she, Fortescue?”
    Obediently craning his neck, his lordship’s brown eyes skimmed the crowd. “The tall girl? That’s The Monahan. She’s— By Jove! Snow, look at this! D’ye see her escort? You never think…”
    Snowden looked, and whistled softly. “So she’s his interest! I’d heard the gossip, but— Gad! They’re bringing it into the open, eh?”
    â€œWho? Who?” Trapped by her paniers and trying vainly to glimpse the gentleman with the lady in the magnificent gold brocade robe volante, Rebecca said, “I cannot quite— Oh.” Her nose wrinkled disdainfully. “’Tis Mr. de Villars.”
    â€œYes. And speaking of dress—look at his!” Snowden chuckled. “Black and silver, to her gold! He’ll cause a flurry with the lady on his arm!”
    Rebecca asked, “Are you quite sure of their—er, relationship, Snow? The lady is so lovely, surely she could not view him with favour?”
    â€œNot much for looks, is he?” Snowden agreed cheerfully. “Yet the women melt at his feet, Lord knows why. I never could believe he’d actually snared The Monahan.”
    â€œShe seems entranced,” murmured Mrs. Boothe, curiously. “Is he very wealthy, Fortescue?”
    â€œPockets to let from what I’ve heard, ma’am. Still, he keeps up appearances, don’t he?”
    â€œHe does indeed,” Snowden agreed, with a grin. “The Monahan is expensive, that I do know.”
    Rebecca turned to him, much shocked. “You do? How—”
    â€œHe—he ain’t clutch-fisted, neither,” Fortescue interposed, desperate but ever loyal. “No lady leaves his protection with rancour, so they say. And—”
    â€œMy— lord! ” gasped Mrs. Boothe.
    â€œOh—egad!” groaned his lordship.
    â€œHere we are, at last!” said the vastly diverted Snowden. “Get your pretty selves together, mesdames. And remember, Becky: No dancing!”
    *   *   *
    Had anyone ever told Rebecca that she could have a wonderful time at a ball without once dancing, she would not have believed it. On this warm May evening, however, she thoroughly enjoyed herself. Before they were through the reception line she had become a centre of attention, and she could scarcely have been more pleased than to have two gentlemen vying for her attention when she came up to give her hand to the host.
    Sir Peter’s greeting was the essence of charm and manners. His hair, heavily powdered, was tied back in the English style. The great cuffs of his green velvet coat were frogged with pale green satin, the pocket flaps and stiffly pleated skirts free of further ornamentation. It was a rather austere habit for so young a man, but Rebecca, entranced, thought that very austerity emphasized his good looks.
    Once in the ballroom, she was besieged, as her aunt had foretold, gentlemen pressing in around her, and old friends struggling through the crowd to embrace and congratulate her upon her return to social functions. When she was asked for her dance card, and replied demurely that she would not be dancing, her decision was obviously applauded. Several would-be partners claimed her for