Free The Wagered Miss Winslow by Kasey Michaels Page A

to him that he had dismissed it out of hand? She might not be beautiful, she might not have ever been beautiful, but she was no Medusa, for pity’s sake! How dare he propose a platonic marriage?
    Unable to read Rosalind’s mind and, being a male of the species, unable to understand such disconnected yet strangely logical deductions even if he had been privy to them, Beau waited as long as he could without speaking, then said helpfully, fatally, “Perhaps you would wish for me to put my promises in writing, Rosalind?”
    She shot him a look that should have warned him that his previous good luck had suddenly soured but, in his anxiety to finish with this particular discussion before he succumbed to the strange desire to run his fingers through her hair, he ignored it.
    “There is no need for you to go to such lengths to prove that I am unattractive to you,” she said, shocking him speechless as he at last was brought home to the fact that he had blundered. “I believe you, Mr. Remington.”
    Across the room, Mollie discovered herself to be so overjoyed to hear her own earlier thoughts confirmed that she giggled aloud, considering her own chances to capture Beau’s heart to be still alive—and kicking. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mistress, for she did—Miss Winslow was the best of ladies— but if there was ever before such a prickly miss, Mollie certainly hadn’t yet met her. Of course Mr. Remington couldn’t be attracted to such a lady.
    Now she, Mollie, was a much more approachable female. Very approachable. And she was Irish too, into the bargain, like him, not that she had ever so much as sniffed the air over the old sod. Let him marry Miss Winslow. It made no nevermind to Mollie O’Rourke—just as long as he understood that he wouldn’t have far to go to warm himself after climbing out of his wife’s frigid bed. The mistress wouldn’t put up a fuss—it would save her from lying on her skinny back and thinking of England, or at least that’s what Mollie’s mama had always told her when Miss Winslow’s randy father had been in residence all those years ago.
    “Mollie,” Beau snapped, annoyed, even though he did not know all that was going through the maid’s mind, which could only be considered a good thing. He had forgotten she was still in the room, listening to all that was said, and most probably fully prepared to repeat it all later in the servants’ hall. It wasn’t like him to be so sloppy. Perhaps his heart was more involved than he believed it to be. “I think we can dispense with your services for the moment. Miss Winslow will ring if she needs you.”
    The maid’s smile wavered, but then she rallied. He didn’t fool her, not for a moment. He had to play the ardent suitor, or else there would be trouble. Later, when he had done with convincing Miss Winslow to marry him, then there would be no more need for such playacting. And Miss Winslow wouldn’t mind either, Mollie was sure. All she loved was this house, this land, and scrabbling about in the dirt. Why, she wouldn’t know what to do with a fine, strapping man like Beaumont Remington!
    “Yes, sir,’ Mollie said, gifting him with a confidential wink as she curtsied and headed for the doorway. “I’ll just go help Riggs with the luncheon.”
    Beau waited for her to leave, then turned back to Rosalind, who had risen and gone to one of the windows, to stand looking out over the patio and gardens. He approached her carefully, not so slow-minded that he did not know that he had erred on the side of politeness to the point that he had insulted the woman.
    “Mollie is a healthy girl. A very healthy lass indeed,” he said, bending so that his mouth was close to Rosalind’s ear. “You were very astute to hire Riggs. I should imagine you would otherwise find yourself spending all your time chasing Mollie and any male on the premises out of corners. But she doesn’t hold a candle to you, m’dear.”
    Rosalind fought to keep