Page 3 of Tamed By a Passionate Lady
She glared at him again. “While my husband is alive, there will be no other man for me, Mr. Montgomery,” she said, through tight lips. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must go inside. Good day.”
She marched off, without waiting for his reply, her face burning with the shame of it.
I will not cry,she told herself fiercely.Iwill not let that man make me cry!
He had utterly spoilt her morning. Her brief sense of peace, when she had been sketching, was shattered now. The one thing that she did, which gave her joy and release, and he had ruined it for her.
She went in through the back door, walking through the kitchen. Mrs. Hargreaves, the cook, was hard at work as always, stirring a pot of bubbling soup on the hob. Nellie, the maid who helped her, was busy cutting up onions and leek for the traditional Lancashire stew that she knew was on this evening’s menu.
The elderly cook smiled when she saw her. “And how are you today, Mrs. Townshend? Did you get much drawing in, then?”
Adaline smiled back. She liked Mrs. Hargreaves. She liked all of the servants at Birkenhead Lodge, even though she hadn’t chosen any of them. They had been a part of the house when she had arrived there, but they had been warm and friendly from the very start, welcoming her as their mistress.
Sometimes, she thought they were the only friendly faces she saw.
“A little bit,” she replied. “I find it so restful, and the garden is looking lovely at this time of year…”
Mrs. Hargreaves nodded. “That it is, lassie! Spring is always grand in this part of the country.” She studied her closely. “But why are you looking so pale? I thought the spring air would do you the world of good.”
“Am I?” asked Adaline, biting her lip. “I do not know…”
But suddenly, the cook looked out of the window. Reuben Montgomery was strolling casually across the lawn, whistling.
“He looks like the cat that just ate the cream,” remarked the cook tartly. “Will Mr. Montgomery be at luncheon, or is he leaving the Lodge this afternoon?” She glanced sympathetically at her mistress.
She knows, thought Adaline miserably.She knows that Reuben Montgomery torments me.
She could tell that Mrs. Hargreaves didn’t like the man, and she didn’t like what he was doing to her. But it wasn’t like the cook had any power to change it.
For a brief second, she yearned to confide in the cook. Mrs. Hargreaves was so grandmotherly, with her snow-white hair, soft, wrinkled skin, and kind, sea-green eyes. It would be such a relief to just tell someone how she felt. How much he distressed her, and how hurt she felt when he talked the way he did about her husband.
But, no. She couldn’t talk to her about any of it. And the only person shecouldtalk to wasn’t interested in listening to her.
She took a deep breath. “Yes, Mrs. Hargreaves. I do believe he will be attending luncheon.”
Chapter 2
James Townshend pulled down the sleeve of his jacket in a distracted manner. His manservant, Groves, was sweeping specks of imaginary dust off the shoulders, with a small brush, as was his habit.
He sighed deeply. He really didn’t feel like going down to dinner tonight. A strange lethargy had been almost overwhelming him the last few days, and even the thought of chatting with his friend Reuben wasn’t enough to shake it off completely.
“All ready, sir,” said Groves, with one final flick of the brush.
James gazed at himself in the full length mirror. He saw a tall man, with wide shoulders, and an almost burly physique. His light brown hair was swept back. The sideburns, of the same colour, were neatly trimmed, and his greenish blue eyes looked greener today. Mother had always told him his eyes were like the sea; that they changed constantly, often depending on what he was wearing.
A man who no longer held the promise of youth but was neither in middle age. Expensively tailored clothes, which in truth were too fine for a dinner at home. But he had been trying to make an effort since Reuben and his sister, Isabel, had come to stay at Birkenhead Lodge, and tonight was no different.
He was already a little late. He knew that they would be seated already, patiently waiting for him, before they started the first course. He closed his eyes for a second, picturing them, one by one, in the same seats that they always sat in.
Reuben would be meticulously attired, too; his friend had always been a little vain in that regard. His friend would be perched uncomfortably in the chair, his long legs straining a little beneath it. He had such a tall, lanky physique. Reuben would have slicked his sandy hair off his face, too.
Next to his friend would be sitting Miss Isabel Montgomery, his sister. Only eighteen years old, he had known Isabel since she was a little girl. She would be dressed plainly and well, as always, perhaps in a white gown, as was her habit. The shade of it would be very close to the tone of her skin. Isabel often reminded him of a wax doll; the pallor of her skin was truly alarming. A small woman, with delicate bones, dull blonde hair, and the palest blue eyes that he had ever beheld, which would often flicker nervously.
He took a deep breath. He was coming to the third person who would be seated. The third person, who was a permanent fixture at that table.
His wife. Adaline.
His chest tightened, at the thought of her. What would she be wearing this evening? Adaline often favoured bold colours, like red and blue and green, and he had to admit, those shades complemented the darkness of her skin. He had often thought that his wife had the complexion of a Spaniard, or an Italian.
