Read Online The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) by Anne Gracíe - Free Book Online Page A

think I was treating you like a maid just now, Daisy.”
    “Nah, ’course not. This”—she waved her hand at Damaris’s hair and gown—“this is what sisters do for each other. Now, get movin’, or we’ll be late. I don’t want to miss nothing of this story.”
    Damaris gave her a swift hug, then the two girls hurried downstairs to the large drawing room. A babble of conversation wafted down the hall toward them. William, the footman, was bringing in some extra chairs; the society was proving more popular each week.
    As they entered the room, Lady Beatrice caught their eye and smiled. The room was crowded—there were forty people at least. The old lady gave a signal and Featherby, the butler, rang a little bell. The din started to fade as people ended their conversations and found their seats.
    As one by one the audience members were seated, only one man remained standing, a tall, elegant gentleman dressed in a dozen shades of gray: the Honorable Frederick Monkton-Coombes. He stood at the rear of the room, leaning against the mantelpiece, his arms folded, watching her. He made no move to find a chair.
    Damaris pretended not to notice him. Threading her way through the crowd, she joined Jane at the front of the room. Now that Abby was on her honeymoon, the reading was left to Jane and Damaris; Daisy had learned to read in the last few months, but she wasn’t up to performing in front of strangers.
    Jane smiled as Damaris slipped into the waiting seat. “Just in time,” she murmured. “I’ll go first, shall I? Give you time to gather your thoughts.” She lifted the current book they were reading and a hush fell.
    Jane began,
“Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. . . .”
    Damaris let the words wash over her, unhearing. Had Mr. Monkton-Coombes told Lady Beatrice about their encounter in the street? What would the old lady say about Damaris working in a menial position? Would she be upset? She glanced at Lady Beatrice, who was listening to the story with her eyes closed. Of course she’d be upset—in Lady Bea’s world ladies simply didn’t work. The menial nature of the job would appall her, and besides, she wanted Damaris to have a life of carefree fun.
    Once she learned, she’d probably forbid Damaris to return to the pottery. She’d probably want to buy Damaris a cottage, but Damaris couldn’t accept that, not on top of all Lady Beatrice had already done for her, and was planning to do. A London season just for fun.
    As the daughter of a missionary, Damaris knew only too well that while charity was a blessing, it could also be a burden. It always came with some kind of obligation, explicit or implicit. She’d spent her whole life either giving or receiving charity, mostly at the same time; living on other people’s charity so that she and her father could help the children at the mission. Her mother’s money had run out by the time Damaris turned fifteen.
    For once in her life she wanted to be free to make her own choices. To be answerable to no one.
    She had to stop Mr. Monkton-Coombes from telling Lady Bea.
    Damaris glanced across the room to where he still lounged against the wall, the only person in the room still standing. She had a clear view of him. And he of her. He was frowning, but he wasn’t looking at her. She followed his gaze but couldn’t work out who or what had disturbed him. Everyone in the audience seemed to be listening attentively to Jane.
    Perhaps he was just staring blankly; people often did that when they were listening to a story, lost in the world of the book. Or lost in thought. She hoped he wasn’t thinking about whether to tell Lady Beatrice about her.
    “‘. . . she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to