Free The Bartered Virgin by Chevon Gael Page B

Care for a truffle? No? Olives? Foie gras? No?” David helped himself and continued. “When Victoria, God rest her soul, came to the throne, the Earl of Wolshingham—my grandfather—was in the market to build a country home and, since the stone foundations remained intact after the fire, he gutted what was left of the walls and rebuilt it as Knightsbriar. Unfortunately, he had not completed the outbuildings at the time of his death. He leased parcels of land to tenants who repaid him a healthy sum at the end of the year, along with a decent harvest. Knightsbriar became a paying operation.” He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.
    Winn was glad David didn’t follow the current trend of long handlebar mustaches most young men fancied. In fact, the more she gazed at him in the muted candlelight, the more she thought his features handsome. She took another sip of wine. “What happened?”
    David sat back in his chair and sighed. “Well, not to put too fine a point on things, my father was a scoundrel.”
    “Ah, so that’s where you get it.”
    David scowled at her airy comment. “Hardly. As a boy I had a typical English upbringing. Private tutors, picnics with Victoria’s grandchildren, country house weekends, shooting parties, the Grand Tour.” He sounded bored by his privileged upbringing.
    “What brought you to America?” she asked.
    “My grandfather was here during the War of 1812 and a few times since. He thought America ‘rustic and charming’ and rugged enough to initiate a young man into adulthood. Harvard was hardly rugged. You’d be surprised how much of this country I’ve traveled. San Francisco, Houston, Atlanta and, of course, Boston. But I missed Knightsbriar and my grandfather terribly. He died just before I left for university, you see, and I thought to honor his memory by continuing the education he wanted me to have. It turned out to be my biggest mistake.”
    Winn saw the downward turn of his beautiful mouth, the sadness that pulled on the corners of his eyes. She wondered how she would feel if she had been forced to attend Miss Spence’s Secondary School For Girls after the loss of her parents.
    “You haven’t told me about your mother,” she said softly, trying to revive his mood.
    “Died in childbirth,” he said simply.
    “Oh, I am terribly sorry.”
    “Yes. So am I. I believe that’s why my father packed me off to my grandfather so early in life. My mother was a beautiful woman. There is a portrait of her at Knightsbriar. She had lovely raven black hair and piercing blue eyes. The staff says Father went mad staring at that picture. He drowned himself in whiskey and indulged in extremely bad behavior. It got worse after my grandfather died. When I returned to England I discovered my father had all but bankrupted Knightsbriar before his death.”
    “And this is where I now enter your life.”
    “Yes,” he raised his wine glass once again. “To the beautiful salvation of Knightsbriar.”
    Winn couldn’t decide what part of the dedication was true. Certainly she was the salvation, but beautiful? It was the first time he had ever spoken of her with anything but scorn. The first moment he regarded her with any affection.
    “What is your fancy, Winnifred? A thick steak? A fat bass? A rack of lamb? No one prepares a steak like the Texans, you know. Huge damn things. Keep a man in the privy for days.”
    “David! Keep your voice down. People will hear you.”
    “What people? Cornelius Vanderbilt over there? The Morgans dining in the middle of the room? The Guggenheim clan who came in behind us? Shall I go over and intrude upon their party?”
    Winn felt her cheeks redden in embarrassment. “Oh, no! You can’t do that here!”
    “And why not, my little patron of etiquette? Because we haven’t been properly introduced inside the hushed, dark canyon of some nouveau riche club by an abstract acquaintance? Come, now. These people have left their comfortable homes and gone out of