Read Online A Baron in Her Bed by Maggi Andersen - Free Book Online
Authors: Maggi Andersen
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and own my own property. If I marry, I lose my independence.”
“Oh, pooh.” Fanny crinkled her pert nose. “No woman would pass up someone like the baron for spinsterhood. And why would you want to worry about all that when a husband takes care of it for you?”
“And become devoted to the idle graces? Married to a nobleman, my life would consist of visits to the dressmaker, card playing, and formal visits. Not like my grandmother who lived a useful life and managed my grandfather’s estate after he died. Why, today, noblemen even have a way to prevent women having children once they have their heir and a spare.”
Fanny’s eyes widened. “My goodness, Horatia. You put me to the blush. Where do you learn these things?”
“I heard it discussed in India. On a hot night, after a long protracted dinner, all manner of things were considered.”
Fanny giggled. “Your poetry won’t warm you at night. But I’m sure the baron would.”
“He was born in France. Not all the villagers will put out the welcome mat for him.” Horatia knew she sounded like a mean-spirited old spinster. What was wrong with her?
“He is an English nobleman by birth. And Mama has learned on good authority that, although property was seized in France by the government, he is still quite wealthy.”
“I suppose he will be of benefit to the village,” Horatia said grudgingly.
“Oh my, you are like a bear with a sore head today. What has happened?” Fanny didn’t wait for a reply before rushing on. “What are you wearing tonight? I have the most exquisite new gown. It has been made especially for my come-out, but Mama told me to wear it.”
“Father wants me to wear the bronze with the figured lace.”
“What? That old thing? Buttoned up to your chin? Finish your tea and let’s go up to your chamber. You must have something better.”
“If I had something better, I would wear it.” Horatia wished her father’s economizing didn’t extend to her wardrobe.
“We have hours to spare. Come on, let’s see.”
In the bedchamber, Fanny pulled out all Horatia’s dresses and threw them on the bed. None were particularly alluring. There hadn’t been much call for glamour in this quiet place, but Horatia had a sudden urge for it.
“All right, it’s the russet silk,” Fanny said with a moue of distaste. “We might lower the neckline. Do you have any spare lace?”
“I do as it happens; it was brought home from India. I’ll fetch my sewing box.”
Several hours later, Horatia tried the gown on again. Fanny had cut the neckline into a deep scoop and edged it with a border of fine old lace that Horatia had been keeping for a special occasion. What better occasion than now? There was enough lace left to embellish the hem, shortened to give a glimpse of the ankle. Fanny was an enthusiastic seamstress but had little chance to enjoy it for her mother had all her gowns made.
“You are the best of friends, Fanny.” She gave her friend a hug. She gazed in the mirror, and her hand fluttered over her chest. “But it is barely decent. Perhaps I should add a tucker.”
Fanny gasped. “You know they aren’t worn in the evening. Why, Mrs. Braithwaite at the lending library might wear one, but she’s close to seventy and no doubt feels in need of it, but a young woman in the prime of life, like you, should not.” She took the scissors and cut a thread. “The neckline is perfect. You have very good skin, Horatia. And it’s quite modest, really.”
That evening, Horatia took an unconscionable amount of time with her appearance, and when she came downstairs, her father remarked on how well she looked.
“That gown complements your fine brown eyes, my dear. Was it always so . . .?” He waved a hand across his chest. He shrugged. “Perhaps a shawl? We wouldn’t want you to catch a cold. Those curls frame your face so becomingly. I’m pleased you took my advice.”
More ringlets clustered about Horatia’s ears than she cared
“Oh, pooh.” Fanny crinkled her pert nose. “No woman would pass up someone like the baron for spinsterhood. And why would you want to worry about all that when a husband takes care of it for you?”
“And become devoted to the idle graces? Married to a nobleman, my life would consist of visits to the dressmaker, card playing, and formal visits. Not like my grandmother who lived a useful life and managed my grandfather’s estate after he died. Why, today, noblemen even have a way to prevent women having children once they have their heir and a spare.”
Fanny’s eyes widened. “My goodness, Horatia. You put me to the blush. Where do you learn these things?”
“I heard it discussed in India. On a hot night, after a long protracted dinner, all manner of things were considered.”
Fanny giggled. “Your poetry won’t warm you at night. But I’m sure the baron would.”
“He was born in France. Not all the villagers will put out the welcome mat for him.” Horatia knew she sounded like a mean-spirited old spinster. What was wrong with her?
“He is an English nobleman by birth. And Mama has learned on good authority that, although property was seized in France by the government, he is still quite wealthy.”
“I suppose he will be of benefit to the village,” Horatia said grudgingly.
“Oh my, you are like a bear with a sore head today. What has happened?” Fanny didn’t wait for a reply before rushing on. “What are you wearing tonight? I have the most exquisite new gown. It has been made especially for my come-out, but Mama told me to wear it.”
“Father wants me to wear the bronze with the figured lace.”
“What? That old thing? Buttoned up to your chin? Finish your tea and let’s go up to your chamber. You must have something better.”
“If I had something better, I would wear it.” Horatia wished her father’s economizing didn’t extend to her wardrobe.
“We have hours to spare. Come on, let’s see.”
In the bedchamber, Fanny pulled out all Horatia’s dresses and threw them on the bed. None were particularly alluring. There hadn’t been much call for glamour in this quiet place, but Horatia had a sudden urge for it.
“All right, it’s the russet silk,” Fanny said with a moue of distaste. “We might lower the neckline. Do you have any spare lace?”
“I do as it happens; it was brought home from India. I’ll fetch my sewing box.”
Several hours later, Horatia tried the gown on again. Fanny had cut the neckline into a deep scoop and edged it with a border of fine old lace that Horatia had been keeping for a special occasion. What better occasion than now? There was enough lace left to embellish the hem, shortened to give a glimpse of the ankle. Fanny was an enthusiastic seamstress but had little chance to enjoy it for her mother had all her gowns made.
“You are the best of friends, Fanny.” She gave her friend a hug. She gazed in the mirror, and her hand fluttered over her chest. “But it is barely decent. Perhaps I should add a tucker.”
Fanny gasped. “You know they aren’t worn in the evening. Why, Mrs. Braithwaite at the lending library might wear one, but she’s close to seventy and no doubt feels in need of it, but a young woman in the prime of life, like you, should not.” She took the scissors and cut a thread. “The neckline is perfect. You have very good skin, Horatia. And it’s quite modest, really.”
That evening, Horatia took an unconscionable amount of time with her appearance, and when she came downstairs, her father remarked on how well she looked.
“That gown complements your fine brown eyes, my dear. Was it always so . . .?” He waved a hand across his chest. He shrugged. “Perhaps a shawl? We wouldn’t want you to catch a cold. Those curls frame your face so becomingly. I’m pleased you took my advice.”
More ringlets clustered about Horatia’s ears than she cared
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