John Moore by A Fate Worse Than Dragons

Author:A Fate Worse Than Dragons [Dragons, A Fate Worse Than]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-06-25T21:37:04+00:00

“Pardon?”

“This morning. You made a comment on my shoes back at the inn.”

Roland looked at her foot, visible in the stirrup. “Oh. I merely meant to say that they didn’t coordinate well with that dress.”

Well, that clinches it, Alison thought. You really do need to get out of the country, my girl. Imagine losing your head over this kind of boy. Maybe the city will teach you a little sophistication. She shook her head ruefully, thinking about Sir Terry, Roland’s buff, muscular “traveling companion.” That should have been a dead giveaway right there.

Well, it was nothing for her to be concerned about, she decided. It was a bit of a disappointment, she was willing to admit that, but Alison reminded herself that the man was engaged, after all. She certainly didn’t care what his private life was like. Not at all. She wasn’t the kind of woman who would steal another woman’s fiancé. Of course not. She was only here out of her concern for the princess. The poor girl. No wonder she had gone through all that effort to not marry him. It all made sense now.

Alison felt a little better, thinking how fortunate she was not to be in an arranged marriage. She smiled at Roland and continued chatting until they reached the end of the drive. Roland continued right up to the front door, where a guard appeared, looked at them suspiciously, and placed himself solidly in the path of the horses. Before he could say anything Roland stopped his horse, slipped lightly to the ground, and handed his reins to the uniformed man. “Roland Westfield,” he said smoothly, “here to pay a social call on Count Bussard. Hand me your reins, my dear,” he said to Alison, not giving the man time to reply. He passed them also to the guard, telling him, “Keep our horses ready, thank you. We shan’t be staying long, I don’t expect.” He switched his attention back to Alison. “Let me give you a hand there, darling.”

He helped her down from the saddle and up the steps to the front door, all the while keeping up a line of idle chatter, talking over any attempt to interrupt, either by the first guard, another one who appeared, or the servant who answered the door, to whom he simply handed over his card, and said, “Roland Westfield of Solcus. Is Count Bussard in? We were in the neighborhood and should like so much to meet him. If it is convenient, of course. No trouble, I hope. We don’t mind waiting.” And then they were past the butler and into the front hall. “Do bring my wife a glass of wine, thank you. And one for me as well. That will be all.”

And then, amazingly, they were not only in the house, they were alone in the drawing room, a rather nice place, with thick carpet, antique chairs, and a few pieces of tasteful sculpture scattered between the furniture. The floor-to-ceiling windows were draped in gray-green cloth, trimmed with red and black.

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