Read Online Anne Barbour by A Rakes Reform - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A Rakes Reform
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sparkling, “have you ever seen such elegance? My room is furnished with everything one could want for an overnight stay—even cruets of scent and books on the bedside table!”
“Enjoy it while you may, my friend,” replied Hester with a chuckle, “for tomorrow we return to our cinder pile by the hearth at Rosemere.”
The ladies, having been led without incident through broad corridors and stately staircases, were eventually ushered into a large, airy chamber furnished in the first stare of elegance. Long windows, hung with emerald damask, looked out over velvety parkland. Lord Bythorne sat at his ease on a satin striped settee, deep in conversation with his ward. He rose as his guests entered the room.
“I trust you have been made comfortable. Miss Blayne, Miss Larkin,” he inquired smoothly, expressing gratification at their affirmative response.
Chloe was simply gowned in white muslin, over which lay a tunic of pink sarcenet that reflected the delicate color of her cheeks. Pink ribbons threaded through her dark curls completed her ensemble and she looked, thought Hester, absolutely charming. Mr. John Wery must be a very undiscriminating suitor indeed to confine his conversation to sheep and crops while in her presence.
The girl had evidently decided to follow her preceptress’s advice, for her demeanor was equally charming. She maintained a deferential courtesy through dinner, saying little, and any discomfort she might have been suffering as a result of her aborted escape to freedom was in little evidence as she made an excellent meal of Davenport fowls, stuffed and roasted in butter, baked carp dressed in the Portuguese way, and a variety of vegetables in appropriate sauces.
Larkie, seemingly overwhelmed by her grand surroundings, remained subdued. Thus it was left to Hester and Thorne to maintain a conversation that remained surprisingly convivial.
Truth to tell, Thorne was more than a little amused at the presence of the country’s foremost feminist at his table. In her plain round gown, with that absurd cap tied tightly beneath her chin, and her eyes glinting shrewdly, she was as out of place as a wren in a gilded canary cage. Lord, what would his London cronies think if they were to walk into the room right now to find the Earl of Bythorne dining a quatre in splendor with his ward and two spinsters from an obscure village on the fringe of Surrey? They’d consider him well round the bend, of course. Not that he cared for the opinions of a parcel of jaded roués from the hells of St. James’s. In addition, to his surprise, he found he was enjoying his conversation with the redoubtable Miss Blayne.
“So you do not think Byron a dark and dangerous man?” he asked idly.
“Not nearly so dangerous as he would have his readers believe,” retorted Hester with some asperity. “I think him a very good poet, but he would be a much better one if he would stop all that ludicrous brooding and soul-searching.”
Thorne laughed. “The ladies of the ton would cast you into the nearest pit were they to hear such sentiments of one of their favorites. For even though he departed this sceptered isle in disgrace—or perhaps because of it—he is still much talked of.”
“Yes, I suppose they would.” Hester smiled. “I have grown accustomed to ostracism, however, and it bothers me not in the slightest.”
Thorne dissected with his fork the damson pie that had just been placed before him. “I understand”—he glanced at Chloe—”that you are the daughter of a peer, Miss Blayne, and your family name is an ancient and honorable one. If you had so chosen, you could have taken your place among the ranks of the privileged. Do you not regret taking another path?”
Hester considered his question, cocking her head to one side in what Thorne found an unexpectedly endearing gesture.
“No,” she said at last with a spurt of laughter. “I rather consider it an escape from prison. I spent a term there— what
“Enjoy it while you may, my friend,” replied Hester with a chuckle, “for tomorrow we return to our cinder pile by the hearth at Rosemere.”
The ladies, having been led without incident through broad corridors and stately staircases, were eventually ushered into a large, airy chamber furnished in the first stare of elegance. Long windows, hung with emerald damask, looked out over velvety parkland. Lord Bythorne sat at his ease on a satin striped settee, deep in conversation with his ward. He rose as his guests entered the room.
“I trust you have been made comfortable. Miss Blayne, Miss Larkin,” he inquired smoothly, expressing gratification at their affirmative response.
Chloe was simply gowned in white muslin, over which lay a tunic of pink sarcenet that reflected the delicate color of her cheeks. Pink ribbons threaded through her dark curls completed her ensemble and she looked, thought Hester, absolutely charming. Mr. John Wery must be a very undiscriminating suitor indeed to confine his conversation to sheep and crops while in her presence.
The girl had evidently decided to follow her preceptress’s advice, for her demeanor was equally charming. She maintained a deferential courtesy through dinner, saying little, and any discomfort she might have been suffering as a result of her aborted escape to freedom was in little evidence as she made an excellent meal of Davenport fowls, stuffed and roasted in butter, baked carp dressed in the Portuguese way, and a variety of vegetables in appropriate sauces.
Larkie, seemingly overwhelmed by her grand surroundings, remained subdued. Thus it was left to Hester and Thorne to maintain a conversation that remained surprisingly convivial.
Truth to tell, Thorne was more than a little amused at the presence of the country’s foremost feminist at his table. In her plain round gown, with that absurd cap tied tightly beneath her chin, and her eyes glinting shrewdly, she was as out of place as a wren in a gilded canary cage. Lord, what would his London cronies think if they were to walk into the room right now to find the Earl of Bythorne dining a quatre in splendor with his ward and two spinsters from an obscure village on the fringe of Surrey? They’d consider him well round the bend, of course. Not that he cared for the opinions of a parcel of jaded roués from the hells of St. James’s. In addition, to his surprise, he found he was enjoying his conversation with the redoubtable Miss Blayne.
“So you do not think Byron a dark and dangerous man?” he asked idly.
“Not nearly so dangerous as he would have his readers believe,” retorted Hester with some asperity. “I think him a very good poet, but he would be a much better one if he would stop all that ludicrous brooding and soul-searching.”
Thorne laughed. “The ladies of the ton would cast you into the nearest pit were they to hear such sentiments of one of their favorites. For even though he departed this sceptered isle in disgrace—or perhaps because of it—he is still much talked of.”
“Yes, I suppose they would.” Hester smiled. “I have grown accustomed to ostracism, however, and it bothers me not in the slightest.”
Thorne dissected with his fork the damson pie that had just been placed before him. “I understand”—he glanced at Chloe—”that you are the daughter of a peer, Miss Blayne, and your family name is an ancient and honorable one. If you had so chosen, you could have taken your place among the ranks of the privileged. Do you not regret taking another path?”
Hester considered his question, cocking her head to one side in what Thorne found an unexpectedly endearing gesture.
“No,” she said at last with a spurt of laughter. “I rather consider it an escape from prison. I spent a term there— what
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