The Secret Wedding by Jo Beverley

Author:Jo Beverley [Beverley, Jo]
Language: fra
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Historical
ISBN: 9781101025499
Publisher: Signet
Published: 2011-03-06T23:00:00+00:00

Christian woke to daylight, though not much of it. The small window had heavy shutters and only one thin slice cut into the room. It was enough to tell him it was full morning. He glanced to his side and found Kat, lying on her back, staring at the rough ceiling.

“Good morning.”

She rolled her head to look at him without a smile. “Good morning.”

Ah, a classic case of guilt. The husband. He did tend to forget the damned husband.

He clearly wasn’t much of a husband, though.

Would Kat abandon him for a sinful life?

Danger, danger, danger!

Christian rolled out of bed and pulled on his drawers and breeches. He was not going to become entangled with a respectable wife of York, especially one who carried disaster in her wake. “I’ll find some washing water,” he said, and escaped.

The only inhabitant of the kitchen was a girl tending to the fire. An already steaming kettle hung over it.

“Good morning.”

She turned sharply to stare as if he had three heads. But then, flooding with pink, she dropped a curtsy. “G’morning, sir. What do thee need, sir? Dad said I was to get thee anything thee needed, sir!”

When she bit her lip, he knew “Dad” had probably also warned about what a fine gentleman might “need” that she wasn’t to supply. Devil take it, when had he become a wicked ravisher?

Afraid even to smile, he demanded washing water, probably sounding like an emperor in a foul mood. She scurried around as if she feared a whip, finding a chipped pottery basin and a tin jug, which she hastened to fill from the kettle.

At that, Christian dashed over to help. Even though it was on a pivot, it was too large and heavy for a mere child. She backed away as if he might scald her.

When the jug was full, he asked, “Is there any chance of soap and towel?”

It was only when her eyes widened and she blushed that he realized he’d smiled, and his smile was having its usual effect. Damnation. He didn’t need another set of local yokels after his blood.

Local yokels . . .

He wasn’t thinking of Doncaster, but of Nether Greasley. The frightened girl reminded him of poor Dorcas Froggatt.

As she opened drawers, he noted the resemblances. Dorcas had been wearing a fashionable gown, not plain drugget, but she’d been as flat-chested as this one, with similar thin arms.

Dorcas’s hair had been dressed in some pinned-up style, but strands had escaped the pins to rat-tail down her cheeks. This girl wore a mobcap, but a few straggling strands escaped, and it looked to be the same mousy blond. When the girl turned with some white cloths and a small pot, she was blushing and flickering shy glances at him. Dorcas hadn’t blushed, and her eyes had been wide and steady, probably with shock.

He extended the bowl. “Perhaps you could put those in here.”

The girl complied, still pink and with her eyes mostly cast down. A complete innocent, as she should be

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