Free The Bartered Virgin by Chevon Gael Page A

war long ago. And good riddance. A more backward country I’ve never seen. Why, in barely one hundred years of so-called freedom from England you’ve managed to nearly tear yourselves apart.”
    She jumped on him immediately. “We have electric lights and telephones.”
    “Slight condolences for the remaining widows and orphans of that conflict or for the parents of the young men whose bodies lie buried in Cuba.”
    Winn stopped for a moment. She remembered—barely—an argument between her brother and Papa when Tip wanted to follow Roosevelt and his Rough Riders. Such a romantic adventure it had sounded at the time. But Papa, as usual, made the right decision when he packed Tip off to Harvard. Her own beloved Tippy might right now be lying in an unmarked grave in some heathen country. The best defense she had to offer was a mere slight sting.
    “And how is King Edward enjoying the company of Mrs. Keppel these days?”
    “Bravo!” he clapped. “You do read the newspapers. And speaking of reading, did you bring what I asked?”
    Winn lifted the edge of the shawl on her lap to expose a corner of the book.
    “Excellent! There is hope for this evening. Ah, here we are. Trust me, Winnifred, the second floor dining room has some of the most excellent cuisine New York has to offer. And later, we’ll each have the opportunity to sample some luscious tidbits.”
    Winn brightened at the thought. “Desserts! Oh, how I love them but Mother forbids them as she says they’re bad for the figure.”
    “Indeed. The dessert I had in mind can also be bad for the figure, if one is unlucky.”
    “Is that a riddle?”
    But the carriage stopped before she could wheedle an answer from him. As usual, all she got for her efforts was a mysterious wolfish grin.
     
    “This is lovely,” gasped Winn as she gazed around the dining room. True, the linens were sumptuous, the china gleamed off the candlelight, the silver was polished to a shine and the crystal sparkled. It was as good as any table her mother set.
    David glanced at the menu. “Egads, woman! Twelve courses. I could feed all my tenants for a month on this.”
    “Lillian Russell and Jim Brady dine like this every night.”
    “I hope you’re not bragging. I’ve seen photographs of them. Fat as cows. We serve a more modest meal in the country. You’ll see.”
    Winn played with a corner of the napkin in her lap, wondering if they could ever have a conversation where they agreed on something. She tried a different tactic. “Knightsbriar intrigues me. Tell me more.”
    David ordered a bottle of wine to start them off. “When Henry VIII demoted Anne of Cleves to sisterhood, she lived out her days between four country houses she received on the dissolution of her marriage. The original Knightsbriar was one of them.”
    “Then I shall live in the palace of a queen!” she exclaimed.
    “Not too starry-eyed, dearest. When Anne died the estate fell into disrepair. The house was mildly resurrected and the land later became part of a parcel of homes in which to squirrel away poor Queen Charlotte. After she left, it was uninhabited for quite some time and then eventually felled by fire.”
    “It seems Knightsbriar has become a refuge for unwanted wives,” Winn said teasingly. “I shall be in quite distinguished company.”
    David said nothing but waited for the waiter, who had arrived with the wine, to fill their glasses. When the man was gone, David lifted his glass. “A toast, Winnifred. To unwanted wives.”
    Winn warily lifted her glass and touched the rim to his. She stopped and placed her glass back on the table. “I shall not drink to such a toast.”
    “You have one of your own, then? Something less truthful but more fitting?”
    “I shall say, to the salvation of Knightsbriar. This is one queen who will not be content wiling away her days tatting by the fireside.”
    “Hear, hear. I had hoped you would breathe life into the old place. Ah, the delicacies have arrived.