Free Wedding Night Revenge by MARY BRENDAN Page A

Meredith...' He paused until Rachel slid a startled sideways look at him. Mrs Pemberton's drop-jawed dismay went unnoticed by him. 'It seems she has been ludicrously successful in teasing you over...nothing at all.' With a glint firing his eyes that made Rachel's stomach squirm, he executed a curt bow, took a step back, and turned to go.

    Pamela, having been scorned twice in an hour by gentlemen with whom she'd striven to ingratiate herself, became desperate not to let him go on such an inharmonious note. 'So you think a storm is brewing then, my lord?' she squeaked, on a wide-eyed grin that quite obviously forgave him his snub.
    'I don't see how it can be avoided,' he returned with smooth emphasis.
    Fleetingly his sardonic eyes skimmed Rachel before he was gone.
    'I had a nice chat with your mother...'
    Rachel stabbed a look at the woman with eyes like ice shards. How dare she address her so convivially! The bitch was actually trying to be amiable and brush aside the fact she'd been so spiteful only moments ago. She'd attempted to insult her; shame her and make her out to be angling for the Earl's attention. Not only that; she'd hinted to the man himself that she'd been boasting of hooking him! It was outrageous! Not once had she tried to deliberately put herself in his way! Quite the reverse! A sudden, awful thought struck her. Did he believe she was fishing for his attention? That she'd schemed at loitering forlornly on the stairs tonight simply to lure him into approaching her? Was that why he'd said she might harbour regrets now he'd risen in the ranks? Did that final look he gave her sum up his contempt for her belated apology because he thought it had been prompted by her mercenary golddigging? The mortification made her choke furiously, 'A
    nice chat! With my mother?' She twisted a bitter smile. 'I'm amazed! That's far more than you deserve from any of . the Merediths this evening. It's certainly far more than you shall get from me! If you'll excuse me...'

    The aria suited her pure, golden voice very well, Rachel thought. The soprano knew her forte. Not a murmur could be heard from the rows of occupied chairs arranged in a semi-circle about the base of the stage. This final piece was clearly demonstrating the fine range of her voice as it built towards a high sweet crescendo.
    The fact that the Earl of Devane didn't appear to be amongst the adoring admirers present in the foremost row of chairs facing the dais had not seemed to affect the diva's performance. Her tortured expressions, her theatrical mannerisms were quite naturally perfect. Rachel had to admit, the lady was very .talented.

    Sam Smith stood on the pavement and looked up at the brightly lit first-floor casements. Finely dressed ladies and gentlemen were drifting in and out of view, providing a fascinating glimpse of untold luxury as they nibbled at fancies or sipped from crystal or china. All the men looked rich and important; all the ladies looked glittery and beautiful. Then he saw her, the most beautiful one of all, wafting into view, laughing and relaxed with that woman she'd been with last time he saw her. She raised a glass to her lips and fire sparked off its rim. Her golden curls and pearl-pale complexion were indeed a sight for sore eyes, he thought, as a hand went to his bruised face. He winced as it touched his distended eye-socket and came away blood-stained.
    The lady was present; with luck, the gentleman would be too. He'd seen the way Lord Devane looked at her and guessed the man might be where she was.
    He'd been on his way past, with his sister, in search of lodgings for the night, when he'd noticed that elderly cove who'd wanted to fight him earlier in the week from his vantage point, in the bushes, Sam slid him a crafty look from his good eye. There he was, sitting snooty atop a different fine rig, keeping his distance from the other coach drivers who, bored with the wait, were passing time by playing dice on the cobbles. It didn't