Reluctant Bride by Joan Smith

Author:Joan Smith [Smith, Joan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Regency Romance
Publisher: Belgrave House
Published: 1982-09-05T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

It was a short trip to Rusholme, about sixteen miles. The team of grays borrowed from Edmund’s friend made it without baiting. We arrived just in time for dinner, at six. Uncle Weston had about given up on seeing us. I had mentioned we would arrive around noon. Weston Braden, I happen to know, is sixty-five, but he looks older. He is a rumpled anachronism of a man that no valet can keep presentable. His hair is white, worn in the old style—longish, pulled into a tail behind. He has no pretensions to fashion. As often as not he wears an old fustian coat about his place, but in honor of our visit he was rigged out in a blue one. He is somewhat stout, ruddy-complexioned, with bright hazel eyes. Gout necessitates his hobbling along with a walking stick. He is out of style with the world at large, but in the doorway of his half-timbered Elizabethan home, he looks just right—a portly, sixteenth-century English squire. One expects to hear a “forsooth” or “sirrah” when he opens his mouth.

I introduced Sir Edmund as my fiancé, never thinking I would have to do more than make the statement. I was in grave error. Weston took an inordinate interest in the matter.

“Why you never mentioned a word of being engaged, Lizzie!” he exclaimed, greatly surprised.

“It happened only recently, Uncle.”

“Isn’t that nice. I had despaired of ever seeing you settled. So you are Lizzie’s young man,” he continued, shaking Blount’s hand.

“I have that honor,” Edmund confessed, unblushing.

“Blount. Blount—the name sounds familiar,” Uncle said next. “You wouldn’t be the Blount who owns Woldwood, where the fine cattle are bred?”

“I have that honor, too,” Blount answered modestly.

“Well, now, isn’t that fine.” Weston smiled fondly at first me, then my catch. “You have done well for yourself, missie. Very well indeed. She is sly as a fox, Sir Edmund. She has kept mum as a mole about the whole thing.”

“Very likely she is ashamed of me,” Edmund replied, with a disparaging smile.

This was treated as humor of a high order. After he had finished laughing, Weston asked, “How do things go on at Westgate? Not too prosperously I fear, as you are ready to sell me the necklace.”

“Not prosperously at all, Uncle. That Berrigan fellow you saddled us with is a disaster.”

“Is he indeed? I am surprised to hear it. He came highly recommended. I’ll look about and find someone else for you. Or perhaps Sir Edmund would be interested . . .” His relief at being rid of us was genuine.

Once I was there, actually facing my uncle, I knew perfectly well it was nonsense to think he had anything to do with Greenie or the stolen jewelry. I believe Sir Edmund was thinking the same thing. He observed Weston closely, then a sort of puzzled frown settled on his harsh features as he glanced to me.

Maisie came forward to make her greeting and be welcomed. When she was seen to be carrying a walking stick, Weston thought he had a fellow-sufferer in gout.

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