Read Online Wilful Impropriety by Ekaterina Sedia - Free Book Online
Authors: Ekaterina Sedia
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protest with each gentleman her aunt presented to her, but making only monosyllabic, distracted answers to the conversation that sounded like buzzing insects around her ears. No matter how she craned her head over her various partners’ shoulders, she couldn’t catch sight of that plain gray bombazine gown anywhere in the crowd.
All she lived for, in the endless hours that remained, was the moment when she would be allowed to return to her room in the rented townhouse, to turn over every memory of that brief, electric meeting in her mind. As she and her aunt rode back in their carriage, she let Clarisse’s icy stream of words wash over her, as harmless as rain against a sturdy umbrella.
The Tennants’ ball would be tomorrow. She would have another new gown by then, the modiste had promised. Not that appearances mattered in a servants’ corridor, of course. But still . . .
When she started down the corridor toward her bedroom, Clarisse’s hand shot out as quickly as a striking snake to fasten around her arm. “Oh, no, my dear. We have important matters still to discuss.”
Yanked out of her thoughts, Agatha pulled her arm free. “I’m sure tomorrow will be soon enough.”
“Tomorrow,” said Clarisse, “we shall announce the news of your betrothal. I will compose the notice to the newspapers tonight.”
“What?” Agatha stared at her. “But I haven’t—no one has even proposed to me yet.”
“Goodness, what a romantic you are. I had no idea of it!” Clarisse tittered as she walked gracefully into her own bedroom, her vast skirts and petticoats rustling and her Indian shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. “Your fiancé arranged it with me himself, of course, just as mine did with my own parents. You have nothing to do with the decision.”
“But . . .” Stopping short in the doorway, Agatha stumbled to a halt. Miss Blenheim stood at the dressing table, holding Clarisse’s fur-lined dressing gown. Under her ex-governess’s gleaming gaze, Agatha’s instinctive urge was to freeze or, better yet, retreat to safety.
She remembered Isobel’s words.
Do you think I’m going to let that stop me?
No,
Agatha told herself, and her shoulders straightened. “I believe,” she said coolly, “it is customary for a gentleman to ask for a young lady’s consent as well.”
“Oh, well, in love matches, perhaps . . .” Clarisse waved a careless hand in dismissal.
Miss Blenheim tsk’ed compassionately. “Did you really expect someone to fall in love with
your
face, miss?”
Even as Agatha started to shrink, she remembered that warm, delighted voice.
Who was mad enough to call you unattractive?
Of course Isobel had only seen her for a moment in the doorway—the words meant nothing, really, not when she thought logically about them. Isobel might well change her mind in the light of day. But still . . .
Agatha’s chin lifted. “The law may not allow me to choose a husband without my father’s consent,” she said, “but you cannot force me to marry against my will. I will say ‘no’ all the way to the altar itself.”
“Now, my darling girl.” Her aunt sank down in front of the blazing fire, as Miss Blenheim wrapped the dressing gown around her solicitously. Tucking her chin into the lush fur collar, Clarisse said, “I believe it is time for you to understand the truth about the women of our family.”
As Agatha saw her aunt shiver and lean into the fire, her newly wakened senses grated at her.
“It’s as hot as a furnace in here,” she said. “Why are you wrapping yourself up so tightly?” She frowned, thinking back. “You always do, don’t you?”
Miss Blenheim’s lips curled as she leaned over to stoke the fire higher. “It took you this long to notice, miss?”
“Now, Blennie. I told you she must be clever enough to put together the pieces eventually, did I not?” Clarisse gave her niece an unfriendly smile. “Well done, my dear. But I would attempt a bit more
All she lived for, in the endless hours that remained, was the moment when she would be allowed to return to her room in the rented townhouse, to turn over every memory of that brief, electric meeting in her mind. As she and her aunt rode back in their carriage, she let Clarisse’s icy stream of words wash over her, as harmless as rain against a sturdy umbrella.
The Tennants’ ball would be tomorrow. She would have another new gown by then, the modiste had promised. Not that appearances mattered in a servants’ corridor, of course. But still . . .
When she started down the corridor toward her bedroom, Clarisse’s hand shot out as quickly as a striking snake to fasten around her arm. “Oh, no, my dear. We have important matters still to discuss.”
Yanked out of her thoughts, Agatha pulled her arm free. “I’m sure tomorrow will be soon enough.”
“Tomorrow,” said Clarisse, “we shall announce the news of your betrothal. I will compose the notice to the newspapers tonight.”
“What?” Agatha stared at her. “But I haven’t—no one has even proposed to me yet.”
“Goodness, what a romantic you are. I had no idea of it!” Clarisse tittered as she walked gracefully into her own bedroom, her vast skirts and petticoats rustling and her Indian shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. “Your fiancé arranged it with me himself, of course, just as mine did with my own parents. You have nothing to do with the decision.”
“But . . .” Stopping short in the doorway, Agatha stumbled to a halt. Miss Blenheim stood at the dressing table, holding Clarisse’s fur-lined dressing gown. Under her ex-governess’s gleaming gaze, Agatha’s instinctive urge was to freeze or, better yet, retreat to safety.
She remembered Isobel’s words.
Do you think I’m going to let that stop me?
No,
Agatha told herself, and her shoulders straightened. “I believe,” she said coolly, “it is customary for a gentleman to ask for a young lady’s consent as well.”
“Oh, well, in love matches, perhaps . . .” Clarisse waved a careless hand in dismissal.
Miss Blenheim tsk’ed compassionately. “Did you really expect someone to fall in love with
your
face, miss?”
Even as Agatha started to shrink, she remembered that warm, delighted voice.
Who was mad enough to call you unattractive?
Of course Isobel had only seen her for a moment in the doorway—the words meant nothing, really, not when she thought logically about them. Isobel might well change her mind in the light of day. But still . . .
Agatha’s chin lifted. “The law may not allow me to choose a husband without my father’s consent,” she said, “but you cannot force me to marry against my will. I will say ‘no’ all the way to the altar itself.”
“Now, my darling girl.” Her aunt sank down in front of the blazing fire, as Miss Blenheim wrapped the dressing gown around her solicitously. Tucking her chin into the lush fur collar, Clarisse said, “I believe it is time for you to understand the truth about the women of our family.”
As Agatha saw her aunt shiver and lean into the fire, her newly wakened senses grated at her.
“It’s as hot as a furnace in here,” she said. “Why are you wrapping yourself up so tightly?” She frowned, thinking back. “You always do, don’t you?”
Miss Blenheim’s lips curled as she leaned over to stoke the fire higher. “It took you this long to notice, miss?”
“Now, Blennie. I told you she must be clever enough to put together the pieces eventually, did I not?” Clarisse gave her niece an unfriendly smile. “Well done, my dear. But I would attempt a bit more
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