Tori Phillips Read Online Free PDF Page B

Brother Cuthbert about it. He shall know my mind on the subject by the terce bell tomorrow, I assure you!” Marguerite nodded to her niece.
    “I pray you have mercy on the poor man,” Celeste replied, pitying Brother Cuthbert even more.
    “Mercy?” Her aunt looked surprised at the very idea. “Lissa, am I not always the soul of understanding, tact and mercy?”
    Celeste cleared her throat. “So you have often told my sisters and me,” she countered as diplomatically as possible.
    “And so I shall be.” Another uneasy silence draped itself over them. Celeste made a move to leave, thinking her aunt needed to sleep, but the older woman’s grip remained firm around Celeste’s hand. “Sit still, child, for I have much to tell you, and there is so little time.”
    Puzzled, Celeste leaned forward. “ Oui , Aunt? I am listening.”
    Marguerite patted her cheek. “You were always such a good girl. It is a pity that my brother was too pigheaded not to see it.”
    Celeste shifted uncomfortably on the hard stool. All her life she had tried to please her formidable father, to win his love with her cheerful banter and her singing, which everyone else said was sweet as a meadowlark’s on a May morning. Though it had never been spoken aloud, Celeste knew that she was far from the chevalier’s favorite daughter. “Papa has a great many things to attend to,” she murmured in his defense.
    “Bah! Let it be said plainly now, for I do not know when we shall meet again on this earth. Your father wished for a son, and when you, the fifth daughter, arrived, he was angered like a small boy who has been denied a promised sweetmeat. It is a scandal the way he has treated you—sending you off to this godforsaken place to be wed to a stranger who probably can’t even speak passable French!”
    Celeste stared into the candle’s flame, trying to conjure up the face of this unknown bridegroom. The picture of Lancelot in a book in her father’s library swam into her imagination.
    “The Ormonds are a noble family,” Celeste whispered to the flickering point of light. “Walter will possess the qualities of a fine lord, I am sure.”
    “Quit your woolgathering! ” Marguerite’s voice echoed around the tiny room. “This bridegroom of yours is not some pretty picture. He is a real man—and that is the nut and core of what I must tell you!”
    Celeste widened her eyes. She was not sure she wanted to hear whatever caused her aunt’s distress.
    “Do not alarm yourself so, dearest Aunt,” she murmured, though her own heart beat faster.
    “Ah, ma petite , I had thought there would be more time to speak of this later—before your wedding day. I promised your dear mama...” She ran her tongue across her lips.
    “More water?” Celeste offered, a flutter of panic tickling her throat. What on earth could it be that curbed her aunt’s usually tart tongue and sent such shivers of fright through Celeste?
    “ Non , more words. Tell me truly, has anyone spoken to you of what passes between a man and his wife after they are married?”
    Celeste blinked at the surprising question. “Why, love passes between the two. With God’s blessing, it grows as the years go by.”
    Marguerite passed her free hand across her forehead, as if to wipe away the thought. “Sweet little fool! You have filled your mind with too many troubadours’ posies. Nay, I speak of the wedding night, when a man and woman lie together in bed. Have any of your sisters spoken of it to you?” Her voice held a note of hope.
    “ Non . Why should they?”
    Marguerite blew out a long sigh. “I was afraid of this. It is no good to cosset young girls under glass, like delicate damask roses, then pluck them rudely out of their loving homes and expect them to enjoy it!”
    “Aunt Marguerite? What are you trying to tell me?”
    The lady squared her shoulders and seemed to grow larger against the pillows. “’Tis this and none other, child. On your wedding night, your