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The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

While Mannering directed footmen in the preparation of the bath, Julien walked over to a brightly burning fire and eased himself into a large leather chair. He negligently loosened his cravat and with a sigh of comfort stretched his long legs out before him.

What more could a man wish for? he wondered lazily. Somehow the thought of a wife’s domestic chatter intruding on the majestic silence of this ancient chamber was unimaginable to him. In any case, he thought with a grimace, its sole purpose would be to grate on his nerves.

Having done justice to Cook’s innumerable dishes, Julien rose, sated, and walked from the formal, rather somber dining room to the sixth earl’s library. Julien never felt quite at his ease in this room, for it was uniquely his father’s. All Tudor influence had been swept away, replaced by pale-blue-satin hangings and light, delicately carved French pieces from the last century. Lush, light-blue-patterned Aubusson carpets covered the cold stone floor, and even the massive carved mantelpiece had been removed and replaced by a light-colored Italian marble one. He could still picture his mother, a descendant of a long, proud heritage of drafty castles in the North, casting scathing comments at her husband’s folly. Since his father’s death some ten years ago, this room, and indeed all of St. Clair, was Julien’s alone, to do with as he pleased. But he had vowed long ago that the library would remain just as it was, the only tangible expression of his father’s taste at St. Clair.

An overly large wing chair stood near the fireplace, quite out of place with the other exquisitely wrought pieces. It was his father’s chair, and Julien always found himself grateful that his sire had made this one exception to the room’s decor in the name of comfort.

It was in this chair that Julien sat himself, stretching his Hessians to the glowing fire.

Mannering approached him, coughed slightly to gain his attention, and turned inquiring eyes upon the plate of Mrs. Cradshaw’s blueberry muffins that he had carried with him from the dining room.

Julien said, “Good God, Mannering, those damned muffins are still here on their plate and not in my belly. Will Mrs. Cradshaw refuse to serve me my breakfast?”

Mannering said, unbending a bit, “Mrs. Cradshaw will understand, my lord.”

Julien waved his hand at the small table at his side. “No, Mannering, I don’t want to brook her displeasure my first evening home. I promise you, I shall do them justice before the evening is out.”

Mannering set the plate of muffins at his side and made his way to the sideboard to fetch a decanter of claret. A smile flitted over Julien’s face as he recalled Mannering’s herculean struggle to help him into his formfitting coat. He had shown unbounded relief when Julien divested himself of his own boots, a task that most certainly would have shaken Mannering’s dignified image of himself. Perhaps, he thought, Mannering would not now think his valet, Timmens, a bad sort after all.

“Will that be all you require, my lord?”

Julien, aware of his old retainer’s fatigue, said quickly, “Yes, Mannering. Do retire now, I will snuff all the candles when I go up.”

Mannering turned and strode in his stately manner out of the library, softly closing the double doors behind him.

Julien leaned forward and poured himself a glass of claret. He took a sip and sat back, savoring the quality. He began absently to twirl the stem between long, slender fingers, his thoughts turning to Percy and Hugh, whom he expected to arrive the next evening. He discovered now that he regretted having invited them to join him here. Aside from the fishing and shooting, the time he would spend in their company promised to be no different from his activities in London.

Julien frowned. He decided after a long drink of claret that he was simply becoming hermetic.

A ghost of a smile played over his lips as he pictured Percy’s boredom at being incarcerated in the country. He found himself concluding, without much regret, that in all likelihood Percy and perhaps even Hugh would leave St. Clair after just a few days.

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Categories: Catherine Coulter
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