The sixth and final book in the Geneva Saga.
Ashley looked in her full-length mirror for the fifth time. She turned and turned again. “Are you certain this a good color for me?”
“You look exquisite! If you were anymore beautiful you’d have to hide yourself,” Alyson cajoled. “You’d think you were expecting Queen Victoria’s son for dinner. You never acted this way with any of your other suitors, much less Grant Wessex whom does wish to be your husband.”
Ashley turned bright pink. Her sister didn’t know she was anxious about seeing that man again, Grady McGillinen. She had learned his name early this morning when her mother sent the invitation after obtaining it from Grant Wessex.
Grant had visited this morning for tea. He had wanted to be certain Ashley was not injured in the accident. obooko.
Ashley had feigned a headache. She didn’t feel up to telling Grant she didn’t want him to continue his suit. He had been sweet and concerned over her welfare. He was such a nice man. His concerns seemed genuine, but she simply was not attracted to him. She also felt that he wasn’t strongly attracted to her. It was just a feeling, but the Stuart women usually were correct with their feelings.
Ashley’s wandering thoughts were brought back to the moment when a carriage pulled into the drive of the Stuart Mansion. Ashley pulled the curtain aside to look out the window. Her heart began racing wildly when she watched the sandy haired hulk of a man step out of the carriage. He was dressed in formal black wear and the trousers appeared tight giving her a full view of muscular thighs. He was handsome indeed, this man that saved her life.
“Be civil my love,” Margaret warned when the bell pull announced the arrival of their guests.
“Of course I’ll be civil,” Harold countered readjusting his cravat. “He may be Irish, but he saved my baby’s life. I can tolerate an Irishman for one meal. I will reward him handsomely for his deed.”
“He may not want money,” Margaret interjected. “The Irish have a large amount of pride.”
“I used to be in the House of Lords, my dear,” Harold replied gruffly. “I think I can handle an evening dinner with an Irishman, savages that they are.”
Margaret groaned and plopped down on the parlor chair.
“Savages that they are? You pompous old goat!” Margaret snapped. “If it isn’t British, if it isn’t money, if it isn’t Beacon Hill, it is savage!”
“The Irish are savages, luv,” Harold responded.