His Wayward Bride (Romance of the Turf Book 3) by Theresa Romain

Author:Theresa Romain [Romain, Theresa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Theresa Romain
Published: 2019-11-04T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

“I do apologize for the state of your study. We didn’t know you were coming.” The butler’s voice rang out from the dining room.

Yawning and eager for a strong cup of tea, Irene halted before she reached the doorway. Bright, the butler, was clearly in a state.

It was too early to deal with someone who was in a state.

“Should you have to know? Shouldn’t you be ready for me anytime?” The reply in a masculine voice was brusque. “It’s not usual to travel on a Sunday, but as I’d already begun my journey, I assumed the Lord above would understand.”

“He’s forgiving of our faults, lucky for us,” replied another male voice. “Let’s hope our loved ones are too.”

This voice was American-accented. This voice was familiar.

This voice belonged to Victor Baird.

Her head cleared at once.

Irene pressed herself against the wall beside the dining room doorway and glanced inside, quick as blinking. In an instant, she took in the room, then whipped back, considering.

It was a room full of men. The butler was in there, of course. And Jonah. And a beetle-browed man in a wheelchair who could be only Sir William Chandler, facing Irene’s handsome wastrel of a father across the table as if they were old friends.

Where was Susanna? Or Laurie, for that matter? Irene pressed at her temples. How long had she been asleep? Had she fallen into a fairy story or a new century? If this sort of bizarre gathering was what came from seducing one’s husband and sleeping late into the morning, then…

…it was still worth it. But damnation, she hated being caught unprepared.

So she pretended to be prepared.

Smoothing her pinned-up hair and everyday blue gown, she adopted an expression of polite courtesy and swept into the dining room. “Good morning, everyone. I hope I’m not late for breakfast.”

Victor and Jonah stood by way of greeting. Ignoring her own father, she leaned over and held out a hand to the gray-haired man in the wheelchair. “You must be Sir William. I’m Jonah’s wife.”

Heavy brows lowered over hazel eyes, the color of which he’d passed on to his oldest offspring. “Irene, isn’t it? Jonah mentioned you were a mulatta.”

She raised a brow. “Does that matter to you?”

“Does it matter to you that I use a wheelchair? Probably not, but you’d be hard pressed not to notice it the first time we met. Especially if it took you by surprise. Am I right?”

He was, not that she’d tell him so. “You don’t like being surprised?”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “It depends on the occasion.” And he took her hand as if to shake it, then bowed his head over it—the gesture of a well-bred gentleman for a gracious lady—before releasing it again.

It was rather sweet. Unexpectedly so. And now she was unprepared again.

She cast a glance over her shoulder at her husband. “What else did Jonah tell you about me?”

“That he’d married you and that you’d left him.”

Ah. Yes. Well, that was the truth.

“He didn’t tell me that you’d found each other again,” the baronet added, “but I could tell.

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