Page 27 of Tall, Dark & Wicked
And Simon is a large trout my mother wishes to catch.
Brushbriar appeared over the rise of the hill surrounded by gardens, filling Petra with dread. Nerves. There was no spoiled stew now to blame for her stomach’s distress. She shrank back from the sight of Simon’s estate, trying to tamp down her rising alarm.
“Oh, Petra, how lovely.” Mother clasped her hands in awe. “It’s almost a shame you shall spend most of your time in London. Thankfully, of course. I know some appreciate the isolation but I’m certain you would not. There’s barely any society to speak of. No one to pay calls upon. You are made to grace a table or dance at a ball.”
Once again, Mother was incorrect. The moors and Mam Tor called to Petra in a way the ballrooms of London never had.
And Morwick. Let’s not forget him.
Simon’s home looked nothing like the heap of stone that was Somerton. The design of the manor house was elegant and modern. Two wings jutted out from either side of the gray brick structure, to curve around the main entrance. Graceful flowering vines, unlike the wild mass of greenery covering Somerton, had been coaxed up the stone columns at the front to spill color against the windows. The drive was wide and circular, the gravel perfectly raked and the grounds manicured to perfection. A bevy of liveried footmen stood at attention prepared to assist Petra and her mother. The occupants of Brushbriar stood just outside the massive, black door graced with a golden knocker.
Simon stood tall, confident and impeccably dressed. Petra had been attracted to Simon’s strong sense of decency when they’d first met, his strong scruples and principled manner. She glanced out the window at his ramrod posture and perfectly tailored clothes. His manner now struck her as more rigid than anything.
He was flanked by two women.
The voluptuous brunette on his left was certainly his sister Katherine, the widowed Lady Whitfield. Petra had never met Katherine, only seen her from across ballrooms or at the opera. Simon’s courtship of Petra had begun shortly after the death of Lord Whitfield and his sister had already left for Brushbriar. Lady Whitfield was known in London for her beauty, her fashion, and her lovers, with whom she was not particularly discreet, something Petra knew did not sit well with Simon. Conscious of his sterling reputation in Parliament and with his own stiff sense of propriety, Katherine was probably lucky Simon hadn’t shipped her off to a convent.
Whitfield’s heir had certainly wanted Katherine gone from London, as he’d forcibly removed her from the Whitfield townhouse. She’d not provided an heir nor had Whitfield provided forher, according to his nephew who had inherited. Dressed in a dark pewter dress, even though Whitfield had only been dead six months, Katherine looked nothing like a grieving widow.
An older, less voluptuous version of Katherine stood on Simon’s left, her hand placed firmly on the arm of his coat. Dressed in a stylish day dress of evergreen, Lady Pendleton looked as fashionable as any grande dame of the ton. She could have been preparing to pay calls in London rather than welcoming guests to her country home. Slender to the point of emaciation, Simon’s mother surveyed Petra with the smile one usually reserves when served day old scones at tea. Her fingers absently plucked at the sleeve of Simon’s coat
Simon had spoken of his mother fondly and with much affection. His description had been of a loving, generous woman who was quick to laugh and enjoyed a brandy before dinner. The woman regarding Petra and her mother with forced welcome didn’t seem to have much in common with Simon’s description. Brittle, was the first word that came to Petra’s mind.
Mother noticed Lady Pendleton’s coldness, taking Petra’s hand firmly and squeezing her fingers. “Do not worry, dearest. You will dazzle her.Youare the daughter of the Earl of Marsh and theperfectmatch for her son. She is only being territorial. Once she comes to know you better, she will adore you as Simon does.”
Petra nodded and squeezed her mother’s hand back. She was beginning to detest the word perfect. Nothing about marrying Simon or Brushbriar was perfect. After the chaos of Somerton, Brushbriar, at first glance, appeared polished and mannered. It should have brought Petra comfort, but had quite the opposite effect.
“I’ll be fine, Mother,” she said quietly.
“We will handle Lady Pendleton together, dearest.” Mother straightened her plump shoulders as if preparing for battle.
Mother was many things, Petra mused. But she would never allow any disparagement of her children for any reason. Only she was allotted such a privilege.
The Marsh coach rolled to a stop, wheels crackling against the gravel of the drive. A brace of footmen sprang into action, hurrying forward to assist Jenkins and the Marsh grooms who had ridden with them.
Simon released his mother’s hand with a pat and came forward to greet the Marsh coach with a smile on his face. A rush of relief filled Petra. She’d been concerned Simon may have had time to regret his decision to invite them all the way to Brushbriar.
Simon was not unappealing. Indeed, Lord Pendleton, ambitious politician, was a very attractive man. His hair shone a rich chestnut in the morning sun, perfectly framing his refined, patrician features. The coat of nut brown was expensive and expertly tailored to fit his lean, energetic form. He didn’t have Morwick’s height, nor his build; instead Simon was lean and aristocratic, looking as if he’d just stepped out of his gentleman’s club.
Lord Pendleton had been one of the Season’s most eligible bachelors and was highly sought after. He’d been in the sights of several young ladies before meeting Petra at the charity luncheon she’d attended. Simon was well-spoken and unfailingly polite. After avoiding Lord Dunning’s groping hands for much of the Season, Simon’s manner toward Petra had been a welcome relief. Mother hadn’t given Dunning a second thought once Simon began to direct his attention to her daughter. At the time, Petra enjoyed the envy of nearly every woman in London for snatching up such a catch as Viscount Pendleton.
As she returned his smile of greeting, Petra considered Mother could be right. Maybe with a bit more effort on her part, she and Simon might find passion between them.
Morwick flashed before her eyes. She could still feel his mouth on hers. The way the heat flew up her body at the merest touch.
Petra’s smile faltered. Why didn’t she have that with Simon? The man everyone wished her to marry? Simon was a gentleman, a shining example of everything Morwick wasn’t.
Yet he never wrote nor came from Brushbriar to check on you.
She had a difficult time imagining Simon holding her if she’d made the mistake of puking on his boots. But Morwick had.
“Lady Petra.” Simon helped her from the coach. “It is my great pleasure to finally welcome you to Brushbriar.” His lips brushed her knuckles.
“My lord.” Petra curtsied in a fluid motion. “We are delighted to accept your hospitality.”
“Lady Marsh.” Simon greeted her mother. “Welcome to Brushbriar.” He bowed.
Mother inclined her head, looking expectantly toward Lady Pendleton and Katherine as she waited for Simon to lead them over.
