Read Online The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) by Anne Gracíe - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Gracíe
Tags: Historical Romance
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society meeting, convince him to keep quiet. What she was doing was harmless, surely.
Damaris painted on, her mind a whirl of possibilities, her brushstrokes sure and swift.
Chapter Four
“Books—Oh! no.—I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”
“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”
— JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
L ady Beatrice’s literary society met three times a week in the afternoon. At this time of year, with the majority of the
ton
in the country, sophisticated London entertainments were few and far between, so those members of the
ton
who remained in town during the hunting season were delighted to be offered something a little different from the general round of morning calls.
Lady Beatrice’s was not the usual kind of literary society; it was, as Lady Beatrice herself informed any new members, just for fun, and not for dreary intellectual posing and prosing on about—there were plenty of other literary groups for that kind of thing. Lady Beatrice simply offered a good story, read aloud by her nieces, and accompanied by tea and cakes. The tea served was often sherry or wine.
It was particularly popular with older people whose eyesight was fading and who found the small print in a book difficult to read. And anyone who so much as mentioned alliteration, allegories or anything else Lady Beatrice called “clever-clogs show-offery” wasn’t invited back.
Damaris returned from the pottery with barely fifteen minutes to spare. On their mother’s instructions Amos and Henry had insisted on escorting her almost all the way. Damaris had convinced them to leave her a short distance from Mayfair by telling them she’d be in trouble if she was seen with them, that her home was just a step away and she’d be perfectly safe now, thank you.
Ridiculous that they were protecting her from the wiles of Freddy Monkton-Coombes. Almost as ridiculous as imagining Mr. Monkton-Coombes was interested in seducing her.
A line of carriages had formed at the front of the house already. She entered through the kitchen door and hurried up the servants’ stairway.
She slipped into her bedchamber. Daisy was there to meet her. “Gawd, I thought you weren’t never goin’ to get here,” she said. “Quick now, let’s get you presentable.” She helped Damaris out of her outer clothes then handed her a washcloth. “No time for a proper wash today, just a lick and a promise.”
“Daisy, you’re a saint. Thank you.” Damaris dipped the washcloth into the waiting warm water and washed herself quickly.
“Jane’s already in there. She’ll start. Right, let’s get this gown on you.”
“Has Lady Beatrice said anything?”
Daisy shook her head. “Nah, but you’re gonna have to tell ’er soon. Turn ’round and I’ll do you up.”
“I know.” Damaris glanced at Daisy over her shoulder. “Mr. Monkton-Coombes knows.”
“He what? How come? You didn’t tell ’im, did you?”
“Of course not. It was just by chance—he saw me going to work and followed me. He even talked to Mrs. Jenkins, the owner.”
“Bloody ’ell,” Daisy muttered. She tugged the dress to straighten it. “Right, that’s done. Now we’ll just tidy your hair.” She undid the simple knot Damaris always wore for work, brushed her hair out, then twisted it into an elegant plaited coil high on her head. “No time for anything fancy today. So, you reckon Mr. Monkton-Coombes will tell on you to Lady Bea?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.” Damaris glanced at herself in the looking glass. “Daisy, you’re a wonder and a marvel. If you ever decided not to be a mantua maker, you could always find work as a lady’s maid.”
Daisy snorted. “Nah, I been at other women’s beck and call all me life—now I want to do something for meself.”
Damaris glanced at her, a little dismayed. “I hope you don’t
Damaris painted on, her mind a whirl of possibilities, her brushstrokes sure and swift.
Chapter Four
“Books—Oh! no.—I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”
“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”
— JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
L ady Beatrice’s literary society met three times a week in the afternoon. At this time of year, with the majority of the
ton
in the country, sophisticated London entertainments were few and far between, so those members of the
ton
who remained in town during the hunting season were delighted to be offered something a little different from the general round of morning calls.
Lady Beatrice’s was not the usual kind of literary society; it was, as Lady Beatrice herself informed any new members, just for fun, and not for dreary intellectual posing and prosing on about—there were plenty of other literary groups for that kind of thing. Lady Beatrice simply offered a good story, read aloud by her nieces, and accompanied by tea and cakes. The tea served was often sherry or wine.
It was particularly popular with older people whose eyesight was fading and who found the small print in a book difficult to read. And anyone who so much as mentioned alliteration, allegories or anything else Lady Beatrice called “clever-clogs show-offery” wasn’t invited back.
Damaris returned from the pottery with barely fifteen minutes to spare. On their mother’s instructions Amos and Henry had insisted on escorting her almost all the way. Damaris had convinced them to leave her a short distance from Mayfair by telling them she’d be in trouble if she was seen with them, that her home was just a step away and she’d be perfectly safe now, thank you.
Ridiculous that they were protecting her from the wiles of Freddy Monkton-Coombes. Almost as ridiculous as imagining Mr. Monkton-Coombes was interested in seducing her.
A line of carriages had formed at the front of the house already. She entered through the kitchen door and hurried up the servants’ stairway.
She slipped into her bedchamber. Daisy was there to meet her. “Gawd, I thought you weren’t never goin’ to get here,” she said. “Quick now, let’s get you presentable.” She helped Damaris out of her outer clothes then handed her a washcloth. “No time for a proper wash today, just a lick and a promise.”
“Daisy, you’re a saint. Thank you.” Damaris dipped the washcloth into the waiting warm water and washed herself quickly.
“Jane’s already in there. She’ll start. Right, let’s get this gown on you.”
“Has Lady Beatrice said anything?”
Daisy shook her head. “Nah, but you’re gonna have to tell ’er soon. Turn ’round and I’ll do you up.”
“I know.” Damaris glanced at Daisy over her shoulder. “Mr. Monkton-Coombes knows.”
“He what? How come? You didn’t tell ’im, did you?”
“Of course not. It was just by chance—he saw me going to work and followed me. He even talked to Mrs. Jenkins, the owner.”
“Bloody ’ell,” Daisy muttered. She tugged the dress to straighten it. “Right, that’s done. Now we’ll just tidy your hair.” She undid the simple knot Damaris always wore for work, brushed her hair out, then twisted it into an elegant plaited coil high on her head. “No time for anything fancy today. So, you reckon Mr. Monkton-Coombes will tell on you to Lady Bea?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.” Damaris glanced at herself in the looking glass. “Daisy, you’re a wonder and a marvel. If you ever decided not to be a mantua maker, you could always find work as a lady’s maid.”
Daisy snorted. “Nah, I been at other women’s beck and call all me life—now I want to do something for meself.”
Damaris glanced at her, a little dismayed. “I hope you don’t
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