The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [116]
Mr. Strapthorpe was monstrously fat, with gout and at least three chins. He admired Tysen not because he was a devoted town leader and an excellent vicar but because he was the brother of an earl, a very wealthy earl with a great deal of power. Mr. Strapthorpe was still in trade, although he’d removed himself physically far away from his factories in Manchester, and his new status as a wealthy man and the most important man in Glenclose-on-Rowan had made him look to Tysen as a possible son-in-law.
But he was philosophical, if nothing else, and greeted Mary Rose with gallantry while his pinched and meager wife poured tea and complained about the servants that one had to deal with in a small town.
Glenda Strapthorpe made a lovely entrance not three minutes later, her eyes on Tysen as she came into the overly warm drawing room, wearing so lovely a gown that Mary Rose felt suddenly like a dowd. Evidently Meggie agreed, because she moved closer.
As for Tysen, he rose to greet Glenda and said charmingly, “You are in fine looks, Miss Strapthorpe, as is my own lovely wife. When she has settled in, we shall begin entertaining.”
Glenda paid no heed to this or to the vicar’s new wife. She said, without preamble, “I need to show you something, Reverend Sherbrooke. In the conservatory. Mama, we will be back shortly.”
Her mother shot her a nervous look, nearly spilling the tea she’d just poured. Her father looked as if his gout suddenly pained him. Tysen knew Mr. Strapthorpe didn’t like this forwardness in his daughter, but Glenda ruled the house. Her parents were there to serve her, and everyone knew it.
Tysen smiled at Mary Rose and his daughter, and took Glenda’s arm. He said over his shoulder, “No sugar in my tea, Mrs. Strapthorpe. We will be back very quickly.”
Glenda Strapthorpe had no sooner closed the door to the conservatory—it was just a room so far as Tysen could ever tell—than she said in a wonderful, throbbing voice, right in his face, “How could you, sir?”
“How could I what, Miss Strapthorpe?”
“I wanted to marry you, sir, and instead you brought back that creature from Scotland! All you had to do was ask me. I would not have kept you dangling overly. I would have refurbished the vicarage, perhaps added to it, removed some of those worm-eaten old graves and built another wing that would cozy right up to the church so you could be closer to your flock. You would also have greatly appreciated my beauty. You should have already appreciated my beauty. It is remarkable. Just look at me, sir, then at her. There is no comparison.”
Tysen looked mildly interested. “No,” he said, “there is no comparison.”
“Yes, I waited and waited, but you didn’t ask me. What do you possibly see in her? Surely she has no dowry to bring to you. I am nineteen years old. She is old, nearly the age of my mother!”
Tysen decided in that instant that he hated conservatories. It was time to bring this monologue of hers to a close. “Forgive me for disappointing you, Miss Strapthorpe. Mary Rose hasn’t quite gained your mother’s years. Now, what did you wish my advice on?”
“Are you blind, sir? Are you an idiot? Without a brain or any sense at all? I just said that I wanted you, and you were beginning to appreciate me when you had to leave for Scotland. Now you are Lord Barthwick, and my father is more than pleased, and he wanted you for a son-in-law. And you had the gall to bring her back, that foreign creature with no style, no claim to beauty—”
Tysen said slowly, cleanly interrupting her, “Yes, Miss Strapthorpe, perhaps I have been a bit blind. The fact is, however, that I am now married. I was raised with the notion that a person of breeding was always civil, even in the face of disappointment, distress, or regret. If you have no need for advice, then let us return to the drawing room.”
He heard her angry breathing behind him as he opened the door and stepped back to let her pass in front of him.
“Be nice to Mary Rose,” he said, looking at her straight in her lovely