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Authors: Miranda Neville
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higher waists,” she said, now subjecting the little redhead’s ensemble to critical scrutiny. “Your white muslin’s simplicity is deceptive. I daresay it was quite costly.”
“My dear Cynthia,” Caro said. “My dressmaker is going to love you.”
Cynthia rose from her sofa with a new determination. “Can we go now?” she asked.
When Windermere returned, he might not find an heir to his earldom, but his wife would be a lady of fashion. With Caro’s help she would replace the ill-fitting, overtrimmed gowns her aunt had chosen for her and get rid of the frizzy curls. She would study how to be a worldly London denizen who referred to bedroom matters without blushing. And when she had transformed herself, perhaps this kind, formerly shy man would appreciate her. Perhaps they would have another chance for happiness, even for love.
“Fetch your bonnet,” Caro said. “Damian won’t recognize you in a few months. What does he have to say about your poor health?”
“Not a word,” Cynthia replied. “He hardly ever writes.”
P ostal deliveries (by way of the Foreign Office) to and from Persia being intermittent, she heard nothing more from her husband for over two months. When the letter came it was in response to several of her own, though she found little responsive in them. Mostly he wrote questions and commands to be conveyed to the stewards of his estates. By way of variation, he charged her with several errands, such as ordering certain garments from his tailor, the Persian climate having turned out to be more variable than he had expected. He asked her if Windermere House had been let for the season, and made some suggestions about the gardens at Beaulieu that she found quite irritating. He obviously knew nothing at all about gardening.
But it was the conclusion to the letter that shriveled her soul. “I am sorry to hear of your indisposition. You must be more careful of your health. Yours etc. Windermere.”
Three times she read it, in disbelief. She had poured out her soul and all she got in return were two sentences and a Yours etc.
Clutching the neatly written pages until they crumpled in her fist, she sat down at her escritoire. First she did her duty, writing to the steward and the tailor. Then, before she could change her mind, she dashed off a note to the Duke of Denford.
After meeting her at Caro’s dinner party, Denford had paid her marked attention. Flattered and alarmed by his admiration, she’d been shocked to the toes of her respectable slippers by his offering his escort to a masked ball. Attending such an event in the company of a man not her husband wasn’t the kind of thing one did in Birmingham.
She wasn’t in Birmingham anymore. And since her husband clearly didn’t care a rap what she did as long as he received his new clothes, she would please herself.
Chapter 5
R eturning home from dinner with the foreign secretary, Damian learned that Her Ladyship had already retired. He followed suit, finding that his valet had set up his gear in the earl’s bedchamber. Damian wasn’t much acquainted with the room. It had been his father’s and was without much character, except for a certain austerity of decoration that fitted the personality of its late occupant: plain walls, dark drapery, and nothing personal at all. His father had never been much of a reader so there were no books. As for pictures, Damian would have been surprised if there was a single one. The late Lord Windermere had use only for family portraits, kept at the ancient family home at Amblethorpe in the Lake District. No, Damian was wrong. A small landscape framed in gold hung over the fireplace. Damian carried a candle over to get a closer look: a gloomy oil rendition of Amblethorpe Hall that matched the dour grayness of the original. As always, he thought of his ancestral estate without affection and Beaulieu without any more pleasure. He supposed Windermere House was as much his home as any other, until duty
“My dear Cynthia,” Caro said. “My dressmaker is going to love you.”
Cynthia rose from her sofa with a new determination. “Can we go now?” she asked.
When Windermere returned, he might not find an heir to his earldom, but his wife would be a lady of fashion. With Caro’s help she would replace the ill-fitting, overtrimmed gowns her aunt had chosen for her and get rid of the frizzy curls. She would study how to be a worldly London denizen who referred to bedroom matters without blushing. And when she had transformed herself, perhaps this kind, formerly shy man would appreciate her. Perhaps they would have another chance for happiness, even for love.
“Fetch your bonnet,” Caro said. “Damian won’t recognize you in a few months. What does he have to say about your poor health?”
“Not a word,” Cynthia replied. “He hardly ever writes.”
P ostal deliveries (by way of the Foreign Office) to and from Persia being intermittent, she heard nothing more from her husband for over two months. When the letter came it was in response to several of her own, though she found little responsive in them. Mostly he wrote questions and commands to be conveyed to the stewards of his estates. By way of variation, he charged her with several errands, such as ordering certain garments from his tailor, the Persian climate having turned out to be more variable than he had expected. He asked her if Windermere House had been let for the season, and made some suggestions about the gardens at Beaulieu that she found quite irritating. He obviously knew nothing at all about gardening.
But it was the conclusion to the letter that shriveled her soul. “I am sorry to hear of your indisposition. You must be more careful of your health. Yours etc. Windermere.”
Three times she read it, in disbelief. She had poured out her soul and all she got in return were two sentences and a Yours etc.
Clutching the neatly written pages until they crumpled in her fist, she sat down at her escritoire. First she did her duty, writing to the steward and the tailor. Then, before she could change her mind, she dashed off a note to the Duke of Denford.
After meeting her at Caro’s dinner party, Denford had paid her marked attention. Flattered and alarmed by his admiration, she’d been shocked to the toes of her respectable slippers by his offering his escort to a masked ball. Attending such an event in the company of a man not her husband wasn’t the kind of thing one did in Birmingham.
She wasn’t in Birmingham anymore. And since her husband clearly didn’t care a rap what she did as long as he received his new clothes, she would please herself.
Chapter 5
R eturning home from dinner with the foreign secretary, Damian learned that Her Ladyship had already retired. He followed suit, finding that his valet had set up his gear in the earl’s bedchamber. Damian wasn’t much acquainted with the room. It had been his father’s and was without much character, except for a certain austerity of decoration that fitted the personality of its late occupant: plain walls, dark drapery, and nothing personal at all. His father had never been much of a reader so there were no books. As for pictures, Damian would have been surprised if there was a single one. The late Lord Windermere had use only for family portraits, kept at the ancient family home at Amblethorpe in the Lake District. No, Damian was wrong. A small landscape framed in gold hung over the fireplace. Damian carried a candle over to get a closer look: a gloomy oil rendition of Amblethorpe Hall that matched the dour grayness of the original. As always, he thought of his ancestral estate without affection and Beaulieu without any more pleasure. He supposed Windermere House was as much his home as any other, until duty
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