Read Online Outrageously Yours by Allison Chase - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Allison Chase
Ads: Link
You’ll receive full credit for the semester. Extra, no doubt.”
“Then I’ll . . . er . . . just go and pack my belongings.”
“Good. I’ll send my carriage round first thing tomorrow to collect you. Oh, and one other thing.” Simon extended his forefinger, circling it in a gesture meant to encompass Ned’s chin and upper lip. “Attempting to grow a bit of whiskers, are we?”
Ned’s expression turned pained. “Yes, sir.”
“You might wish to consider shaving instead.”
The boy nodded glumly. “Thank you, sir.”
“I am Lillian Walsh, Lord Harrow’s housekeeper. Mind you call me Mrs. Walsh when you call me at all, which shan’t be often if you know what’s good for you.”
Well. Dear Mrs. Eddelson at home in London would never have taken such a tone with a guest, Ivy thought. But given the earliness of the hour, perhaps this woman suffered from excessive weariness; the church bells in the nearby city had barely finished striking seven in the morning.
When Lord Harrow had said his carriage would collect her “first thing in the morning,” he had apparently meant to precede the rising of the sun. She had had to jump into her clothes and race to toss the last of her belongings into her trunks.
Her first view of Harrowood, as she’d been driven through the gates and down the winding, treelined drive, had been shrouded by the dawn shadows. Her initial impression had been one of a drab, brick and stone relic of the pre-Georgian age, nestled at the edge of a gloomy forest and blanketed by an unnatural silence—as if the birds and even the breeze feared to disturb the Mad Marquess of Harrow.
Or perhaps it was Mrs. Walsh they feared.
“Best you know straightaway that I was not put on this earth for the purpose of catering to the whims of university ruffians. Now, follow me, and mind you don’t touch anything.” Her heels clicking briskly, the housekeeper led Ivy across the marbled entry hall that boasted lofty ceilings presided over by a massive chandelier dripping with equal amounts of crystals and cobwebs. Expansive archways on either side of the hall disappeared into darkness. A wide set of carpeted steps curved away to a likewise dusky first-floor gallery.
“Mealtimes are set by his lordship and strictly adhered to. There’ll be no trays carried up to your room, not unless you’re half dead of a fever, and perhaps not even then.” At the base of the steps, the housekeeper stopped and turned.
Mrs. Walsh was a large woman, though not so much corpulent as broad and big-boned. Even abundant layers of clothing could not dispel Ivy’s impression of brawny arms and tree-trunk legs. She had the bulky shoulders and stocky neck of a laborer, a round, pale moon of a face, and strawlike hair that straggled from the edges of her starched white cap.
Her beady gaze raked over Ivy once, twice, and locked.
Ivy pulled up straighter and asked, “Is there something amiss?”
“Let us hope not.” The woman quirked her lips and started up the stairs.
Ivy hastened to match her pace, taking extra care not to trip and fall as she had done yesterday, utterly humiliating herself in front of Lord Harrow, not to mention Jasper Lowbry and the rest of her new “mates” who had been watching and laughing from two stories above.
It was the trousers. The weight of the fabric kept informing her brain, wrongly of course, that her legs had become tangled in her petticoats, thus setting off an instinct to kick them free, which threw off her stride and sent her tripping over her own feet. So much for a lifelong belief that trousers would be less confining than skirts.
Below in the hall came the sounds of servants going about their daily tasks. A peek over her shoulder brought two maids, one with a mop and one with a duster, into view. A footman hauled a ladder across the hall while a second liveried manservant trailed him with an armful of fresh tapers. She resisted suggesting that they attend to the
“Then I’ll . . . er . . . just go and pack my belongings.”
“Good. I’ll send my carriage round first thing tomorrow to collect you. Oh, and one other thing.” Simon extended his forefinger, circling it in a gesture meant to encompass Ned’s chin and upper lip. “Attempting to grow a bit of whiskers, are we?”
Ned’s expression turned pained. “Yes, sir.”
“You might wish to consider shaving instead.”
The boy nodded glumly. “Thank you, sir.”
“I am Lillian Walsh, Lord Harrow’s housekeeper. Mind you call me Mrs. Walsh when you call me at all, which shan’t be often if you know what’s good for you.”
Well. Dear Mrs. Eddelson at home in London would never have taken such a tone with a guest, Ivy thought. But given the earliness of the hour, perhaps this woman suffered from excessive weariness; the church bells in the nearby city had barely finished striking seven in the morning.
When Lord Harrow had said his carriage would collect her “first thing in the morning,” he had apparently meant to precede the rising of the sun. She had had to jump into her clothes and race to toss the last of her belongings into her trunks.
Her first view of Harrowood, as she’d been driven through the gates and down the winding, treelined drive, had been shrouded by the dawn shadows. Her initial impression had been one of a drab, brick and stone relic of the pre-Georgian age, nestled at the edge of a gloomy forest and blanketed by an unnatural silence—as if the birds and even the breeze feared to disturb the Mad Marquess of Harrow.
Or perhaps it was Mrs. Walsh they feared.
“Best you know straightaway that I was not put on this earth for the purpose of catering to the whims of university ruffians. Now, follow me, and mind you don’t touch anything.” Her heels clicking briskly, the housekeeper led Ivy across the marbled entry hall that boasted lofty ceilings presided over by a massive chandelier dripping with equal amounts of crystals and cobwebs. Expansive archways on either side of the hall disappeared into darkness. A wide set of carpeted steps curved away to a likewise dusky first-floor gallery.
“Mealtimes are set by his lordship and strictly adhered to. There’ll be no trays carried up to your room, not unless you’re half dead of a fever, and perhaps not even then.” At the base of the steps, the housekeeper stopped and turned.
Mrs. Walsh was a large woman, though not so much corpulent as broad and big-boned. Even abundant layers of clothing could not dispel Ivy’s impression of brawny arms and tree-trunk legs. She had the bulky shoulders and stocky neck of a laborer, a round, pale moon of a face, and strawlike hair that straggled from the edges of her starched white cap.
Her beady gaze raked over Ivy once, twice, and locked.
Ivy pulled up straighter and asked, “Is there something amiss?”
“Let us hope not.” The woman quirked her lips and started up the stairs.
Ivy hastened to match her pace, taking extra care not to trip and fall as she had done yesterday, utterly humiliating herself in front of Lord Harrow, not to mention Jasper Lowbry and the rest of her new “mates” who had been watching and laughing from two stories above.
It was the trousers. The weight of the fabric kept informing her brain, wrongly of course, that her legs had become tangled in her petticoats, thus setting off an instinct to kick them free, which threw off her stride and sent her tripping over her own feet. So much for a lifelong belief that trousers would be less confining than skirts.
Below in the hall came the sounds of servants going about their daily tasks. A peek over her shoulder brought two maids, one with a mop and one with a duster, into view. A footman hauled a ladder across the hall while a second liveried manservant trailed him with an armful of fresh tapers. She resisted suggesting that they attend to the
Similar Books
