Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,4

from none other than Robert Adam himself.”

David had to force himself not to burst out laughing. Surely no woman could be impressed by a man like Blatherwick. He was like a wind-up toy. Now that he had started, he could not stop his string of boasts. “I do not say it myself, but others do say the woman who wins my affections will be the most fortunate woman in all of England.”

David was especially curious to know who in the hell—apart from Blatherwick himself—would ever think Blatherwick a fine matrimonial prospect. He could have howled with laughter.

The woman who was the object of Blatherwick’s attentions made no response to this latest absurd assertion.

Was The Blowhard ever going to actually inquire about the woman to whom he was paying a call, David wondered, impatience making him fume. The lady wasn’t heavy, but David did wish to put her into the coach.

“It was very kind of you,” she said to Blatherwick, wincing, “to be bringing me flowers.”

“But as you can see,” David said, “the woman’s not fit for callers now. She’s been injured and will have to be attended to.”

The fool had the audacity to lay his pudgy hand upon her delicate arm. “If only you would have allowed me to collect you and the boy as I constantly urge you to do. No harm would ever befall you. Now what have you gone and done?”

Finally!

“I merely slipped in the mud and tumbled a bit. I’ll likely be back to normal tomorrow.”

Blatherwick glared at David. There was no love between the two. David had bested him at everything. They’d been contemporaries at Eton, where David had excelled at the sports which were challenging to Blatherwick. David also rode better than Blatherwick, was more successful at gambling, and he counted more men as friends. Blatherwick, however, held such an inflated opinion of himself he was possibly not aware of any of his own shortcomings.

David finally put the injured lady into his coach, instructing her to stretch her leg across the seat. “You must keep the ankle elevated. It will hurt less.”

Then he turned back to his neighbor. “Good day to you, Blatherwick.”

Still glaring, the man merely bowed, clicked his heels together, and nodded before he returned to his costly curricle.

Then David helped the boy into the coach. “Where do we take you?” he asked her.

“To Darnley Lodge.”

He felt as if he’d taken a fist to the gut. He stiffened. This could mean only one thing. This genteel woman was The Schemer who’d persuaded his father to deny him his birthright. It was all he could manage not to throw her out of his coach. But he could hardly punish her child for her evil ways.

It was only with the greatest restraint he made it the short distance to Darnley without erupting into a fit of anger. The discovery of this woman’s identity had the effect of stealing his tongue.

But not hers. Once he was seated across from her, she eyed him amiably. “You may have noticed that I rather stared at you when you knelt beside me back there. It wasn’t shock. It was the strong notion that we’d met before, and now I know why.”

“I assure you we’ve never met before,” he snapped.

“Oh, I am aware of that, Lord Paxton.”

He raised a brow. “You know my name?”

“I would know you from among a thousand men. Your eyes, your chin…they are exactly like those of your father. God bless his dear soul.”

“Then you must be Mrs. Milne.” His voice was as rigid and cold as marble.

“You are David?” the lad asked him, excitement in his voice.

“Dearest, he’s a lord now,” she said. “You mustn’t refer to him as David. He’s now Lord Paxton.”

“But Lord Paxton’s in heaven.”

“Sons inherit their fathers’ titles.”

David couldn’t be unkind to the boy. He turned to him. “I am David Arlington, Earl of Paxton at your service, young fellow.”

“I know all about you.”

“And how is it that you know all about me?” David asked the boy.

“Lord Paxton would tell me stories about you when you were a lad. I know about when you learned to ride Pudding.”

Good lord! Pudding had left this earth more than ten years ago, yet this boy knew about him.

“And Lord Paxton would tell me stories about the shooting parties you would have with your friends from Eton. I even learned their names: Finch, Perry, and Knowles. I didn’t learn their first names because Lord Paxton said young bloods almost always referred to each other