Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(12)

Mother set down her fork. “I think we ought to rely on Henry’s thoughts on the matter. After all, he’ll be the one to actually wed Lady Cecilia.”

“Humph,” the earl grunted. “It’s my name she’ll bear.”

“And mine,” Henry pointed out mildly.

Beside him Becca had laid her hand on his leg as if to prevent his jumping up and storming out.

Ten years ago he might’ve done just that, but he was no longer an impetuous boy.

“George,” his mother said in a soft chiding tone to her husband.

“Oh, very well,” the earl huffed with little grace. “I’ll wait and watch the girl. But mark you this”—he shook his fork at Henry—“should I find Lady Cecilia lacking, I’ll insist on Lady Joanna.”

Henry’s jaw clenched even as Becca dug her fingers rather painfully into his leg. He dropped his knife to his plate, where it landed with a clatter. “Father, I—”

But Kate rushed into speech over him. “Oh, I heard the most scandalous tale today. Do you know that folly at the Letheridge estate? Well…”

Henry slowly relaxed, letting the women of the family smooth over his anger. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He loved his mother, loved both Becca and Kate—and his actions affected them, too. He was the heir, and everything he did was examined, not only by his father but also by all of society. If he did something scandalous—such as bowing out of an engagement made when he was in leading strings—the taint would fall on Becca and Kate as well. Their standing in society, their invitations to events, even their marriage prospects might fall.

It was no use arguing with his father when it was his sisters and mother who, in the end, bore the cost.

Besides. He’d won his point.

He’d make Lady Cecilia his bride.



The next morning Mary inhaled shakily in her new bedroom at Angrove House. The room was the size of the dormitory she’d slept in as a child at the orphanage. That room had held twenty girls.

This room was intended only for her.

Mary stared around and tried to beat down something that felt very much like panic.

The walls were painted a delicate pale green, like leaves when they’ve just opened in spring. Slender white pilasters divided the walls into panels, and within each panel was a pretty bas-relief of flowers and birds, painted in pink, blue, red, and yellow. A bed draped in yellow curtains stood to one side of the room, opposite the white-tiled fireplace. Delicate chairs upholstered in blue damask sat before the fireplace, and an elegant dressing table, a chest of drawers, and several tables stood around the room.

It was beautiful. Refined. Aristocratic.

She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t a lady. She wasn’t prepared to marry the son of an earl. She wasn’t even sure what she was supposed to do next.

Mary swallowed, wondering what would happen if she simply turned and fled back down the grand staircase of the house and out the front doors.

Jo and Lady Angrove had greeted her warmly at the door, but the earl—her father—had been detained by business. Mary wasn’t at all sure what to think of that. Perhaps he didn’t want to see her?

Perhaps he wished she’d never been found.

She smoothed damp palms down her skirts.

“Is this all, my lady?” the young woman who had been introduced as Mary’s lady’s maid asked. Her name was Lane, and her dress—red-and-white striped with small panniers and an abundance of ruffles on the skirts—was much nicer than the plain gray gown Mary wore.

Lane had bright-red hair and a round freckled face. The maid held up a clean but well-worn chemise, pursing her lips. She had been very polite from the moment Lady Angrove had introduced Mary to her. She’d addressed Mary respectfully and kept her face expressionless.

Even so, Mary could tell the maid was not best pleased to be serving a woman who two days ago would’ve been under Lane on the social scale.

Mary had never ordered anyone about.

On the other hand, if she didn’t take the reins at once, the lady’s maid might never respect her.

She inhaled and glanced at the soft bag Lane had placed on the bed. Inside was everything Mary owned in the world. She looked at the lady’s maid steadily and said, “Yes. That’s all.”

Lane hesitated for a fraction of a second and then folded the chemise. “I see, my lady.”

The maid crossed to the chest of drawers and began transferring Mary’s possessions into it.

“My mother,” Mary said, with slight emphasis to remind the lady’s maid of who she was, “informed me that the dressmaker would call this afternoon. I’m sure I’ll soon have new clothes.”

“Yes, my lady. But in the meantime I’ve been instructed to help you dress in one of Lady Joanna’s gowns today.”

Lane walked to a tall cabinet and opened it, revealing large shelves above a row of drawers. She took down a folded dress and shook it out before laying it on the bed. The dress was cream colored, with a pattern of delicate blue, red, yellow, and pink flowers woven into the fabric.

Lane cast a sly sideways glance at her. “I suppose this is the grandest dress you’ve ever worn.”

Of course it was. The gown might be Jo’s castoff, but it had cost more than Mary would’ve made in a year. She’d never worn anything but plain, practical linsey-woolsey.