Free The Perfect Wife by Victoria Alexander Page B

grinned to herself at his stunned expression. No doubt the boy was shocked that his competent, efficient, reliable Aunt Wynne would agree to uproot herself completely and head to the ends of the earth. The poor child had no idea of the dreams and desires of Wynnefred Harrington—dreams and desires she could see beckoning just over the horizon.

    Lord Benjamin Melville impatiently thrust his coat at a footman and scanned the club lounge for his companions. He spotted the duo in their usual corner near the fireplace and hurried toward them, pausing only to place a drink order with a waiter. Bursting with the need to reveal the latest
on-dit
, he nonetheless restrained himself, now that the moment of release was at hand. Melville settled into a chair and savored the anticipation of imparting information to which he alone was privy.
    Sir Reginald Chatsworth and Lord Patrick Norcross barely acknowledged his presence, resuming their lackluster debate on the relative merits of the horseflesh currently available at Tattersall’s, and whether the absence of quality was inversely proportional to the outrageous prices required.
    Melville surveyed his friends with a practiced eye, wondering, as he often did, how a group so dissimilar in temperament could be quite so compatible. The trio was of a like age and shared a common heritage and breeding. They were, to his way of thinking, a shining example of the best of English manhood. Still, Chatsworth was a talkative, amicable sort of fellow, where Norcross had a disturbing tendency to brood and frequently submitted to bouts of melancholy. As for Melville, he thought of himself as the best of the bunch: attractive, witty and generally not given to overexcitement. Except where the occasion warranted, and this was just such a time.
    The companions shared one other thing that bound them together, one factor that through the years had variously prompted rivalry, triggered resentment and, ultimately, a common sympathy. A bond that frequently filled their conversations with enthusiastic speculation, glimmers of hope and lengthy debate: Each had loved and lost the enchanting Lady Sabrina Winfield.
    “She’s gone off, you know,” Melville blurted, his secret bolting toward freedom like a cornered rabbit desperate for the sanctuary of a hedgerow.
    Norcross and Chatsworth turned to him at the interruption, satisfying Melville that he now had, if not their rapt attention, at least their mild interest.
    Norcross raised a dark brow in a manner Melville found annoyingly superior. “She who?” he said idly, as if the answer were of no real concern, and the only purpose to his question was to cater to Melville’s obvious excitement.
    “Lady Stanford. Sabrina.” Melville leaned back in his chair and smirked at the curiosity now evident on the faces of the two men before him. “She’s gone off and...” he paused and took a swallow of the fine Irish whiskey in his glass, savoring the taste of the liquor not nearly as much as the expressions of his friends, “... she’s not alone.”
    “What on earth are you babbling about, Melville?” Chatsworth snapped. “What do you mean?” He repeated Melville’s words in a snide mimicry of his friend. “ ‘She’s gone off and she’s not alone.’ Explain yourself.”
    Even Chatsworth’s biting manner could not diminish Melville’s pleasure at telling his tale. He considered just how long he could continue to delay without evoking real anger from his companions.
    “Get on with it, man,” Norcross added impatiently.
    “Very well.” Melville directed his gaze first at one, then the other. “Sabrina has left London on a voyage to Egypt. No one seems to know why exactly. Apparently, quite at the last minute I understand, she was joined by ...” he hesitated, to allow his next words the impact they deserved, “... Lord Wyldewood.”
    “Wyldewood!” Norcross gasped.
    “Good Lord,” Chatsworth groaned. “Not Wyldewood. Why did it have to be