Page 6 of Introducing Mr. Winterbourne
Lysander already knew just how blunt the man was capable of being. To the end of his days, Lysander would never forget seeing his father scolded like a naughty schoolboy in his own drawing room. It had been a frank display of power by Freeman over the earl, and it had provoked a mix of responses in Lysander. Shock, of course, and outrage. And other, more troubling feelings he didn’t care to think about.
Since Freeman made little effort to be amiable during their calls, Lysander felt obliged to be twice as charming as usual. But he couldn’t escape the feeling that his efforts were wasted. They were on their fourth visit now, and after several hours of introducing his reluctant charge to people he’d known for years, Lysander had to admit that it was becoming clear to him why Freeman remained so very tight-lipped and grim.
It was impossible to miss the incredulous looks that came their way, the muttering as they approached. Even worse were the openly snide remarks about the vulgarity of commerce. Most mortifying of all, when Lysander had introduced Freeman to his great aunt, Lady Beresford, the old witch had pursed her thin lips, averted her gaze and offered the man two fingers to shake, a calculated insult. Lysander had wanted to die.
Lysander could just imagine what they’d be saying after he and Freeman left each house. They’d put on a show of pitying Lysander for having to put up with a presumptuous social climber and agree the man was insufferable. They’d probably say the same sort of things Lysander’s own father had.
“He practically reeks of his filthy mills.”
Right now, Lysander and Freeman were on opposite sides of the room. Freeman stood near the fireplace, a silent and barely tolerated bystander in a group of four gentlemen. His lips were pressed together, his expression distinctly unimpressed as he listened to The Honourable Freddy Leighton braying about something or other.
Lysander wondered why on earth Freeman had agreed to this. He was clearly hating every minute. Simon might not mind being patronised and despised—Lysander had been out with him often enough to know that much—but his older brother did. Adam minded a great deal.
He simmered with hot, angry,palpableresentment.
“Your Mr. Freeman is very handsome,” a light, feminine voice said in his ear.
Lysander turned his head to see Perry’s sister standing at his shoulder. Lady Arabella Cavendish was nineteen and impishly pretty in sprigged muslin.
“He’s not my Mr. Freeman, Bella,” Lysander said in a repressive tone.
Arabella ignored him. “He looks like a hero from a novel. All brooding and serious.”
Lysander had to admit she was right. Freeman was tall, an inch or two over six feet, a hand span more than Lysander’s respectable five foot eight. Broad through the shoulders and lean hipped, he was a fine figure of a man, his clothes elegant but sober. His thick, dark hair was cut very short, hugging his well-shaped head and lending him a strong, uncompromising profile, and his sherry-brown eyes were sharply intelligent.
“Mama says he’s as rich as Croesus,” Arabella added dreamily.
“Arabella—” Lysander kept his voice low but injected a warning note. He’d known Arabella her whole life and was well aware of her tendency to speak her mind. It was the sort of trait that could result in a young lady being labelled as fast, affecting her prospects for making a decent marriage. “Your mother would have your hide if she could hear you.”
She snorted in a most unladylike way. “You should hear what she says behind closed doors. Father can’t afford another season for me after this one—they need me to marry money. Mama would tie me up in pink ribbon and send me to Mr. Freeman on a silver platter if she thought it would net me a proposal from the man, whatever his pedigree might be.”
“For God’s sake, Bella!” Lysander hissed.
“I can’t say I’d mind myself,” she went on, unrepentant. “He’s a handsome devil. I wouldn’t care about being shunned by thetonif it meant acquiring a husband who looks like that. The only admirer I’ve got at the moment is Sir Toby Edwards, and he’s sixty if he’s a day.” She sighed.
Lysander just shook his head, reluctantly amused, and let his gaze wander back to the subject of their conversation.
Freeman might be rude and blunt, but Arabella was absolutely right about him being handsome. Lysander liked the man’s sleek cap of hair. Liked too those straight, dark brows, even though they kept pulling together in a frown. Liked even more the intense amber gaze that reminded him of a bird of prey. Singular and unblinking.
“You’re staring,” Arabella murmured in his ear.
Lysander was mortified to feel a blush spreading over his face and quickly looked away.
“I wasn’t staring,” he muttered. “I was just lost in thought.”
Just then, Freeman broke away from the group of gentlemen he’d been speaking with. He walked over to Lysander and Arabella, his step decisive, lips still pressed together.
“Mr. Winterbourne,” he said when he reached them, his voice clipped. “I fear we must be wearing out our welcome. We’ve been imposing on Mrs. Dalton’s hospitality too long.”
Lysander glanced at the clock. They’d only arrived twenty minutes ago.
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Let us take our leave of our hostess, then.”
A sharp little elbow dug into Lysander’s side.
“Oh, sorry”—he sent Freeman an apologetic look—“before we leave, may I present Lady Arabella Cavendish?”
Arabella smiled brightly and pronounced herself delighted to make Mr. Freeman’s acquaintance. Oh well, at least one person had been welcoming to Freeman, even if it happened to be someone who was looking for a rich husband.