Free The Irish Bride by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

Sense and Sensibility. I’m afraid Mr. Ferris doesn’t approve of novels, either, so I permit Miss Ferris to read here.” He pulled his watch from his vest and clucked his tongue. “Kindly tell her that it is nearly one o’clock, if you please. She shouldn’t be late.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Thank you. I shall wrap up Pliny for you, Sir Nicholas.”
    She sat, half hidden by the wings, on a worn velvet armchair, her cheek leaning on her hand. A slight smile touched her lips as though what she read pleased her. The sunlight streaming in from the window behind her lit the golden dust motes that swirled about her like Titania’s fairies.
    Nick drew back into the shelves. He thought about what he was doing and why. He’d already exceeded his own bounds of taste and propriety by kissing her hand. A gentleman treated an unmarried lady always with courtesy and respect. He’d clung to that code in the midst of fleeing civilian populations and in noisy taverns, only to abandon it in a Galway drawing room. Did money mean so much to him? Was he such a mercenary beast that he’d drag an innocent woman into marriage with him just to achieve financial security?
    Taking a second glance at Rietta, he knew he had no right to use her in such a way. David would have to wait for another suitor to remove the obstacle she represented.
    He could have sworn he made no noise, yet she looked up. Seeing him, her full mouth tightened as if she forcefully restrained her impatience. The faint sound of her resigned sigh reached him and some resolve within him hardened. She had no gift for concealing her feelings as other women did. Was this the secret of her poor reputation?
    “We meet again,” he said, emerging.
    “Indeed? It is strange to me, Sir Nicholas, that before two days ago I did not even know of your existence. Now you seem to be everywhere.”
    “I must say the same. Miss Ferris. Are you haunting me?”
    “I? I was here first.”
    As he came closer, she rose to her feet, her posture defiant. In the daylight, her skin was unmarked, save for faint shadows beneath her clear eyes. She held her book, her finger marking her place, slightly behind her skirts, as if to conceal it from him. “However, now that you are here,” she added, “I will take my leave.”
    “What are you reading?” He reached for the hook; she swung it further behind her. His arm went around her waist. She caught her breath. There was no softening of her expression, no invitation in her eyes. Nick wanted both and couldn’t have begun to say why. She was more than attractive, but prickly as a thornbush. He felt her hand go against his shoulder in a repulsing push.
    He retreated. “I only wanted to see which author so engrossed you. He must be fascinating indeed.”
    ‘There is no name on the book, sir, yet I believe the author to be a woman.” Closing it, she thrust it toward him and took her hand away almost before he’d taken it. He turned the book over in his hands,
    “Mansfield Park? I’ve never heard of it. What’s the story?”
    “It’s a tale of a poor relation.”
    Was there an emphasis in her words? Nick decided he was imagining things. “What is your reason for presuming the author is a woman?”
    “Only a woman could see so much of another woman’s life.”
    “Male authors write of such things. Maidens fighting for life and honor abound in novels written by men.”
    ‘There are other battles to be fought, Sir Nicholas. This author chooses to tell of smaller wars, fought at home and in the heart. She seems to speak of our inner lives. I don’t know quite how to tell you....”
    “I shall have to read it.” He liked the color and life that came into her face when she forgot herself in the pursuit of an interesting subject. “You are very interested in literature?”
    “Yes.” She drew back, both physically and mentally. He could feel her remembering that they were alone and that his previous behavior had been encroaching.
    “I