Yankee Wife Read Online Free PDF Page B

them. Why any man would want some wilted violet clinging to the back of his collar with clenched fingers, choking him, was beyond his imagining. It seemed to Brigham that a wife should be a partner of sorts, as well as a bedmate. Which wasn't to say he found the militantly self-reliant types all that attractive, either. If there was one thing he couldn't tolerate, it was a horse-faced bluestocking ranting about her rights.
    He decided Lydia McQuire probably fell into the militant category and shuddered. He'd just as soon encounter the ghost of Hamlet's father in an upstairs hallway.
    Devon, who had been able to read Brig's thoughts since they were boys, or so it sometimes seemed, laughed aloud. “You'll be pleasantly surprised when you finally see her,” he said. Then he set his empty snifter on the liquor cabinet and left the study.
    Brigham might have worked happily over his ledgers for the rest of the afternoon if it hadn't been for the encounter with his brother, and for the troubling knowledge that there was a woman upstairs who no doubt expected to become Mrs. Brigham Quade before the week was out.
    His charcoal gaze kept shifting to the ceiling as the spare bedrooms were directly overhead. Finally, he gave up trying to work, wiped his pen and returned it to its stand, carefully closing the bottle of black ink he'd been using.
    He crossed the room to the double doors of the study, opened them, and was startled to find a small, feisty-looking blonde woman standing there, one hand poised to knock. Her eyes were a dark, velvety blue, almost purple, and a fetching blush pinkened her high cheekbones. Her chin was set at a stubborn angle, and Brigham found himself hoping against all good sense that this was not Polly, the woman his brother had chosen for a bride.
    The violet eyes widened, the small fist descending slowly to her side. She was wearing a prim gray dress with plain sleeves and collar. “Mr. Brigham Quade?” she inquired, with all the dignity of a princess who's lost her way among peasants.
    Brigham was holding his breath, feeling as though he'd just stepped onto a rapidly rolling log in a treacherous river. Still, a stern and solemn countenance came naturally to him, even when he was feeling cheerful. He was sure the wench could not guess from his sober nod of acknowledgment how she'd unnerved him.
    â€œI am Miss Lydia McQuire,” she announced, putting her chin out as though she expected to be challenged on the matter.
    Relief Brigham would never have admitted feeling rushed through him with the force of a prairie wind. “I believe you,” he replied.
    The lovely eyes widened, then narrowed, but her color was still high. It was some consolation to Brigham to know she also felt the strange and dangerous dynamics at work between them, that he was not the only one to be stricken.
    â€œYou wanted something?” he asked, with exaggerated politeness, putting his hands on his hips because he was afraid he would lay his palms against her soft cheeks, or the gossamer cloud of her hair.
    The query seemed to befuddle her for a moment. Then, summoning up every inch of her strictly average height, she gave him another regal assessment. “I will not marry you, Mr. Quade, under any circumstances,” she informed him. “I would, however, like to discuss your objectives concerning the education of your daughters.”
    Brigham smiled indulgently. “I don't recall proposing, Miss McQuire,” he replied.
    Again, rich color flooded her face. “Very well,” she said briskly, after a moment of obvious grappling for composure, “that's settled, then. We can discuss what is to be done about your children's schooling.”
    The master of the house leaned indolently against the doorjamb, arms folded. He was more comfortable now, feeling that he had the upper hand. “Aunt Persephone has taught them to read, write, and cipher quite nicely. To be forthright, Miss McQuire,