The Scoundrel’s Daughter by Anne Gracie
Chapter Thirteen
Shortly after five the following day, Alice went to keep her appointment with Lady Peplowe. She was absurdly nervous.
She’d arranged for Lucy to walk in the park with Penny Peplowe while Alice was visiting Lady Peplowe. It would ensure their privacy.
The girls headed off with a footman and maid in attendance, and Alice was shown into the drawing room. Nobody seeing this part of the house would imagine a grand ball had been held there the previous evening. Everything was immaculate. The servants must have been working since before dawn.
Lady Peplowe was seated in the bow window. She patted a chair in a welcoming gesture. “Good afternoon, Lady Charlton. I’m just watching our girls heading off to the park and wishing I had half their energy. It’s going to take me days to recover from the ball, but they bounce right back, bless them.”
Alice forced a smile. Her stomach was a tight knot. “I know how you feel.”
“Nonsense, you’re still young yourself. That peach walking dress really suits Lucy, doesn’t it? I do so like it when young girls wear colors instead of the endless white so many affect.”
Tea and biscuits were brought in, and while they drank and ate—or rather, Lady Peplowe drank and ate; Alice was too nervous—they chatted about the ball and the costumes and how much everyone had enjoyed it. Alice did her best, all the while nerving herself to broach the dreaded subject. Finally it simply burst from her. “I need to ask you a personal question, Lady Peplowe. Very personal, I mean.”
The older woman gave her a shrewd glance and set down her teacup. “Of course.” She added with a smile, “I might not answer it, but I promise I will respect a confidence.”
That would suffice. “It’s about the . . . the marriage bed.”
Lady Peplowe’s elegantly plucked brows rose. “So you can prepare Lucy, I presume. But surely, after your marriage—”
“It’s not the, er, mechanics, I’m asking about. It’s—” She broke off, feeling her cheeks heat. She recalled Lord Tarrant’s words. “Did you ever find it . . . pleasant? Pleasurable I mean? Because I’m told most women . . .” She couldn’t finish. It was too humiliating.
There was a short silence. Lady Peplowe’s brows knotted, and she took a deep breath. “I never did like that husband of yours,” she said briskly. “Are you saying that you never . . . ?”
Alice, face aflame, shook her head.
“The selfish pig!” The older lady reached out and patted Alice on the hand. “Well, thank goodness it’s not too late to learn.”
Alice blinked. “But I’ll be forty in a few years.”
Lady Peplowe chuckled. “And I’ll be sixty. But the good news, my dear, is that it only gets better with age and experience.”
Better?Alice struggled to hide her amazement. It had never occurred to her that older ladies might still do that. Even though there was no chance of children.
“I married young, and for love,” Lady Peplowe began. She glanced at the overmantel, where a family portrait hung. Alice followed her gaze. Lord Peplowe was a nondescript-looking man of medium height. These days he was balding and with a paunch, but Alice had seen the fond way his wife looked at him.
“I was just eighteen, and Peplowe had just turned one-and-twenty.” She sighed reminiscently. “We were both so innocent—my mother had prepared me for my wedding night by telling me to do as my husband bid me, and Peplowe, well, his papa had died when he was twelve, and he’d never been one of those boys who chased after women—we’d grown up together you see.”
She chuckled. “A pair of ignorant virgins we were. Oh, we fumbled around and managed to get the deed done, but it was awkward and uncomfortable and quite ridiculously strange. But we both assumed that was how it was done, so we persisted.” She took a sip of tea, grimaced and rang for a fresh pot.
“But we both had the feeling that there ought to be something more—I mean, what the poets go on about was nothing like what we were finding, and we were in love.” She glanced at Alice. “And then Peplowe had the great good sense to seek out a courtesan.”
Alice gasped.
“A retired one,” Lady Peplowe hastened to assure her. “You don’t think I’d let him actually do anything with another woman, do you?” She laughed. “She was a good deal older, but a woman of great experience, and she explained to him just exactly how things worked, and what he should do to make it better. And even what I should do. Courtesans know all about how to pleasure men—some of them, the most surprising things. I don’t think anyone ever asks them how to please a woman, but she was happy to instruct my darling Peplowe.”
“And that made the experience more pleasant?”
“Pleasant?” She regarded Alice sympathetically. “That husband of yours really deserved a horsewhipping. No, my dear, ‘pleasant’ is far too bland a word. It became . . . glorious. Sometimes earthy, sometimes raw, sometimes sublime and always splendid. A true physical expression of Peplowe’s and my love for each other.”
Alice tried to swallow. A lump had formed in her throat. She half wanted to cry, which made no sense to her.
The fresh tea arrived, and while Alice poured and added milk and stirred in a sugar lump, she managed to get control of her emotions.
Lady Peplowe drank some tea, set her cup down and sat back. “So, my dear, now that you know, what are you going to do?”
“Do?”
“To experience for yourself some of the physical splendor your abominable husband denied you, of course.”
Alice picked up her teacup, unable to think of an answer. What was she going to do? She had no idea.
“I’ve noticed Lord Tarrant has a certain gleam in his eye whenever he looks at you. I’ll be bound a fine, strapping lad like that will know how to introduce a woman to the bliss of the bedchamber.”
Alice almost choked on a mouthful of tea. “No, no, you have it wrong. I have no intention of—of—”
“Discovering what it’s all about? Nonsense! For nearly twenty years you did your duty to a selfish, undeserving bully, and now it’s time you paid attention to your own needs and desires. Or allowed someone else to. Get that gel of yours fired off in style and then see to your own pleasure and satisfaction.” She sipped her tea and eyed Alice over the rim of her teacup. “If you don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering.”
* * *
It took Alice a whole day and night to make up her mind. Lady Peplowe’s words kept coming back to haunt her: If you don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering.
She was still far from convinced that she could experience anything like the pleasure Lady Peplowe had described. After all, Thaddeus had kept the same mistress for twenty years, and he’d obviously been satisfied with her responses in bed—and presumably she with his.
It seemed clear to Alice that she’d been the one lacking.
And if that were the case, how dreadful would it be to experience it all again after she married Lord Tarrant. James. The thought of his gradual disillusion, his growing disappointment in her, was more than she could bear.
One unsatisfied, embittered husband was enough for a lifetime.
Oh, James was no bully, as Thaddeus had been, but any man surely would come to resent a wife who was cold in bed.
But to spend the rest of her life wondering—that was no solution to her problem.
James had offered her the prospect of bliss—and she wasn’t even talking about the bedroom. Companionship, and the chance to be mother to three delightful little girls—all her girlhood dreams revived. Well, most of them. One had to cut one’s coat to fit the cloth. Half a loaf and all that.
Not that James was half of anything. The way he made her feel, that lurking twinkle in his eye. He could meet her gaze, even in a roomful of other people, and make her feel as though just the two of them were present. The way he so often seemed to understand more than she was saying and accept whatever it revealed about her. He could even make her laugh when she was feeling down and despondent.
Only a few weeks ago she’d been facing a lonely future, relishing the thought of her freedom but unsure about what she wanted to do with it.
And then . . . James.
He was offering marriage, family and companionship. Of course he was being practical: he wanted a mother for his girls—what widower wouldn’t? And if her feelings for him were stronger than his for her, did that really matter?
How cowardly, and foolish, to reject all that because she believed she couldn’t satisfy him in the bedroom. Surely it would be better to find out once and for all. What did she have to lose?
It went against the habit of a lifetime to consider what she was considering, but she could see no other solution. This endless dithering was driving her crazy. With that thought in mind, she sat down and penned a note to Lord Tarrant, asking him to call on her at his earliest convenience.
* * *
He came the following morning, bringing with him the three little girls and their nanny. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing the girls,” he said once the chaos of their arrival had passed. “They’d already been asking could they visit you and Miss Bamber—and the garden—again, and Nanny McCubbin seems to have found a bosom friend in Mrs. Tweed and—”
“It’s perfectly all right,” she assured him. After a hasty greeting, the girls had rushed out to join Lucy in the garden, and their nanny had headed off to the kitchen for a cup of tea. “As I said before, they’re welcome at any time. Lucy and I love having the girls visit, and Mrs. Tweed enjoys Mrs. McCubbin’s company. She even lets Mrs. McCubbin help her in the kitchen—a great and rarely bestowed honor, I’ll have you know.”
“You’re very kind. My own house has very little garden—it’s just a courtyard with a couple of aspidistras and a few kitchen herbs—so the girls see your garden as some kind of paradise.”
“It is a kind of paradise, and I’m very happy to share it. Tell me, how did you manage to pry Debo away from her cat?”
“Separate Debo and Mittens?” he said in mock horror. “Perish the thought.” Then, in response to her raised brow, he added, “Can’t be done, I’m afraid. Debo will go nowhere without her cat.”
“But—”
“Oh, she’s here all right, with the kitten—which you might not have noticed was traveling as an indignant bulge under her coat, Mittens having a strong dislike of the carriage.”
“But if she lets it out in the garden . . .” Alice had visions of the kitten disappearing forever.
“Did I ever explain what a superlative nanny Nanny McCubbin is? She made a harness for Mittens, and then told Debo that she’d never manage to teach the cat to wear it—that cats cannot be trained.”
“Oh, how clever. Of course, Debo rose to the challenge.”
“Indeed she did, and it was a battle of wills that lasted several days and entertained us all. But now Mittens is out in your garden, wearing an elegant red harness as if to the manner born—Debo not having sufficient confidence in the manners of that ginger tom toward visiting kittens.”
Alice laughed.
“Now, what was it you wanted to speak to me about?”
The bottom dropped out of Alice’s stomach. He always did this to her, made her forget about whatever it was she’d been worrying about. Now all her earlier tension returned with a vengeance.
“Uh . . .” She tried to swallow. There was a giant lump in her throat.
His brows rose. “Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking . . .”
He inclined his head and waited.
“About . . .” She could feel her cheeks heating.
“About ‘um’?”
His euphemism for bedroom activities. She nodded. “Yes, I’ve decided to . . . to try it. Again, I mean. With you.” There, she’d said it. She waited for his reaction, her stomach hollow and her pulse racing.
His eyes darkened. His brows drew together in a slow frown. He didn’t say a word.
Did he not understand? Had she not been clear enough? Lord knew, her nerves were playing havoc, and she might not have made her meaning plain.
She took a deep breath. “I am willing to become your mistress.”
The furrow between his brows deepened. “My mistress,” he repeated in a flat voice.
“Yes.”
“I see,” he said after another long pause.
She waited, fidgeting nervously with the fabric of her skirt. The longer the silence stretched, the more she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. But she couldn’t unsay the words. And even though she felt as if she might throw up at any minute, she wasn’t going to back down from her decision.
After an age, he cleared his throat. “So, you won’t be my wife, but you will be my mistress.”
Put like that, it sounded terrible. Bald and blunt and ugly. And scandalous. But it was how she felt.
“Yes,” she croaked.
“Even though you dislike ‘um.’ ”
“I always disliked it with my husband.” She swallowed again. “But perhaps . . .”
His frown darkened. “You’re thinking that perhaps it might be different with me.”
She nodded, her cheeks aflame. “You did say as much,” she reminded him. Turn “um” into “yum.”
“I did, didn’t I? Well then.” He rose abruptly, his expression grim. “I’m going to have to think about this. I will return in an hour to collect my children. I’ll give you my answer then.” He strode from the room.
Alice stared at the empty doorway, confused by his reaction. She thought he’d be pleased, thought he’d jump at the chance, but he seemed neither pleased nor eager.
The drawing room felt chilly. Childish laughter floated in from the garden.
Was he shocked by her forwardness? It was hard to tell. But the way he’d so abruptly departed, without either accepting or rejecting her proposition, must tell her something. Though what?
She smoothed the fabric of her skirt and frowned. It was a mass of wrinkles. She’d made a mess of it, twisting and crushing it without thinking. Nerves.
Did he think her offer revealed her as a strumpet? Many men would think so.
But Alice refused to be ashamed. It was her body to offer: she was a free agent now and owed fidelity to no one. If he condemned her for it, well, she would be disappointed in him—more than disappointed if she was honest with herself—but she wouldn’t go back on her offer, nor would she apologize.
Lady Peplowe was right. It was time Alice discovered for herself what most other women found in the activities of the bedchamber. She wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of her life wondering.
* * *
James strode away from Alice’s house, oblivious of where he was going. He was as tense as a wound spring.
I am willing to become your mistress.
He pounded along the pavement, his fists clenched in hard knots, wanting to punch somebody—no, not somebody: her thrice-damned arse of a husband.
Her face haunted him, so taut and pale when he’d arrived, then later blushing and hesitant, offering herself as if she were . . . he didn’t know what. All he knew was that he was boiling with frustrated rage at what had been done to this sweet and giving woman.
He wanted to marry her with all honor, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it: she thought she had to debauch herself first.
The hesitation in her eyes, the uncertainty. The courage it must have taken after refusing his offer of marriage, to then offer her body, to lie down with him in an act she was sure she would loathe. Had loathed. For eighteen long, blasted years.
And she didn’t even know how to kiss!
That bastard!
There were times when James caught glimpses of the hopeful young girl that she must once have been. All innocence and bright expectation. Before her pig of a husband had driven all the youthful confidence out of her.
But he hadn’t managed to kill off her sweetness. Alice had every right to be bitter, but there wasn’t a trace of bitterness in her.
If only James had met her back then, before she’d married that oaf. He would have married her—no, because then he wouldn’t have met and married Selina, which he could never regret, and they wouldn’t have had their precious girls.
But someone should have protected her from marriage to such an uncaring swine. He added her father to the list of dead men he itched to pound to a pulp. The man had been more interested in saving the souls of unknown—and probably unwilling—denizens than the welfare of his only daughter.
Crossing a road, he paused to let a wagon rumble past and realized where he was. Turning a sharp right, he headed down Bond Street to number 13, where he could get exactly what he needed: a furious bout of fisticuffs to work off his anger.
Entering Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, he encountered the great man himself, who bowed. “Lord Tarrant, how may I help you?”
“I need to go a few rounds with one of your men, Jackson, but I’ll warn you now, I’m in a foul mood and need to pound on someone.”
Jackson chuckled and said with dry irony, “You can certainly try. Follow me, my lord.”
* * *
Forty minutes later James was stripped to the waist, sluicing his heated body down with cold water. Several fast and furious bouts with one of Jackson’s best men had certainly loosened some of the fierce coils of anger inside him. He was feeling calmer and more clearheaded, not to mentioned bruised and aching—but in a good way.
He’d been a fool to walk out on her like that. More than a fool—an insensitive brute. What must she be thinking? At great cost to herself, she’d offered him a very precious, deeply personal gift, and what had he done? Walked out on her. Saying he needed to think it over.
Of course he didn’t need to think it over. Alice was his; she just didn’t know it yet. And if she needed first to prove to herself—or rather, if she needed him to prove to her—that the marriage bed need not be something to be endured, he would do it. With pleasure.
On the way back from Jackson’s, he paused by a little flower girl selling violets and bought a posy. Alice deserved better of course, but right now he needed to get back to her as quickly as possible and make up for the way he’d bungled things.
He found her out in the garden with his daughters and Lucy. They were gathered around a pair of easels.
“Look, Papa. Miss Bamber painted us a painting,” Judy exclaimed.
But James only had eyes for Alice. “I’m sorry I rushed off like that,” he told her quietly and handed her the violets. She thanked him, raised the posy to her face and inhaled the scent. He couldn’t see her eyes, couldn’t work out what she was thinking. Was she upset with him for rushing off like that? She had every right to be.
“She did one of me and Mittens, too,” Debo said. “See? It looks just like us.”
“Very nice,” he said, and nodded vaguely at Miss Bamber.
“Lina painted one, too,” Alice said, and James gave up. He couldn’t possibly discuss with her what he needed to discuss, not here, with his daughters clamoring for his attention. He turned to look at Miss Bamber’s paintings, and his jaw dropped.
He’d expected some kind of amateurish schoolgirl painting, but what he saw took his breath away. The main painting was an ink and watercolor of the big tree that grew in the center of the garden, as lifelike as if it were growing from the paper. “Can you see us, Papa?” Judy pointed excitedly. “Look. There we all are!”
Half hidden by the leaves of the tree and looking slightly fey, as if they were part of the tree, six faces peeped out; Judy, Lina, Debo, Alice, Lucy and himself. It was a commemoration of the Great Tree-Climbing Adventure. There was even a feline-shaped ginger smear that vividly portrayed an escaping cat.
He examined the tree painting carefully, then the one of Debo and her cat, then several others of the garden and one of Judy staring pensively up into the tree with an expression that made him want to pick his daughter up and hug her.
He turned to Miss Bamber. “But these paintings are marvelous, Miss Bamber. I had no idea you were this talented.” Lucy looked down, blushing.
“None of us did,” Alice said. “She’s kept it a secret up to now, but Lina winkled it out of her.”
Lina smiled proudly. “Miss Bamber is teaching me how to paint and draw, Papa. See?” She produced a pad filled with small sketches and paintings, and he slowly turned over page after page, examining each with solemn attention.
“They’re very good for a girl her age,” Lucy Bamber said quickly. There was an edge of defensiveness in her voice. Did she think he was going to dismiss his small daughter’s efforts? She did, he saw. As others had done to her in the past?
“They are very good,” he agreed gently. “Lina has always loved to draw, and I’m very grateful you’ve helped and encouraged her. Even when she was very small, she used to draw pictures on the letters Judy wrote to me. Judy wrote me all the news, and Lina brought it to life in pictures.”
His two older daughters looked at him in surprise. “You remember?” Judy asked.
“Remember? I’ve kept every last one of those precious letters. All the years I was away at war, they were all I had of you girls. I’ll show you them when we go home.”
He turned back to Lucy. “Miss Bamber, may I buy that painting of us all in the tree?”
“No, you may not.” She dimpled. “I’ve already given it to Lina.”
“Buy the one of me and Mittens, Papa,” Debo demanded.
“And the one of me,” Judy added. “Please?”
Before he could ask, Lucy tore both paintings off the pad and handed them to him. “Please, it’s my pleasure,” she said when he started to argue. “I don’t usually show anyone my work. You”—she gestured to the small group around her—“are the first in a long time.”
“I hope we won’t be the last,” he said seriously. “You have a real talent. I’m going to have these framed.”
“Girrrls? My lady? Miss Bamber?” a Scottish voice called. Nanny McCubbin appeared around a corner. “Time to come in for luncheon. There’s nice hot soup, so come along. You don’t want it to go cold. And wash your hands,” she called after them as the girls ran ahead.
“I’ll be in in few minutes,” Lucy said. “I’ll just pack up my things.”
“Then Lady Charlton and I will go ahead and warn Cook,” James said before Alice could offer to help. He held out his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it.
“I’m sorry I rushed off like that before,” he said once they were out of earshot. “I hope I didn’t upset you.”
“Not at all.” Her voice was cool.
“You took me by surprise.”
“So I gathered.”
He stopped and, taking both her hands in his, faced her. “Alice, you did me a great honor this morning, offering me the priceless gift of your trust. I’m a clumsy oaf, and I’m sorry if I offended you in any way. If your offer is still open, I would be privileged to accept it.”
He held his breath as she gazed up at him. He was drowning in those sea blue eyes of hers.
After what felt like an age, she said, “I’m glad.”
They resumed their walk back to Alice’s house. “So what do we do now?” she asked.
“I’ll make all the arrangements.”
“What arrangements?” she asked, adding, “I’ve never done this before, so I’m unaware of the conventions.”
“There are no conventions in our case,” he said. “We’ll make it up as we go along.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “You mean you’ve never had a mistress before?”
“No.”
“Oh. I thought all men had them.”
“Not all men.”
“Then what are these ‘arrangements’ you’re talking of?”
“Do you plan to take me to your bed here, then?”
She gasped. “With Lucy in the room above me? And the Tweeds and Mary knowing? Of course not.”
He smiled. “And presumably you wouldn’t want to come to my bed, with my daughters sleeping upstairs—and I’ll warn you now, they have a tendency to jump on me in bed at appalling hours of the morning. Generally with a cat in tow.”
She laughed. “Oh dear, and do you sneeze?”
“Invariably.” They’d reached her back gate, and he held it open for her. “So, my dear Alice, will you agree to leave the arrangements to me?”
“I suppose I must.” She hesitated. “Do you know, er, when . . . ?”
“I’ll let you know.”
* * *
Lucy, having gone to sleep with her windows open, was woken early by the twittering of the birds outside. She lay there a few moments, snuggling dreamily in the warmth and comfort of her bed, contemplating the day ahead, when suddenly she remembered.
And sat straight up.
The announcement would be in the papers this morning. She was—officially, if not actually—betrothed. To Gerald, Lord Thornton. A proper lord!
Across London, people would be seeing the announcement about herself, plain Lucy Bamber, and Lord Thornton. It was a strange thought. With any luck, Papa would be one of them, reading the newspaper announcement at this very minute—well, soon; he was not an early riser—and come around here to give Alice back her letters.
When would Alice see it? It was her habit to drink a cup of chocolate and glance through the newspapers before dressing and coming down to breakfast.
Hasty footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Alice. She knocked on the door and entered, waving her copy of the Morning Post. “Lucy, the strangest thing! Someone has put a notice in the paper announcing a betrothal between you and my nephew, Gerald. I don’t know how it happened. It’s clearly a mistake and—”
“It’s not a mistake.”
“We’ll have to get it withdraw— What did you say?”
“I said, it’s not a mistake.”
Alice blinked. “It’s not?”
“No. Gerald put the notice in yesterday.”
“You’re engaged to my nephew, Gerald?”
Lucy nodded.
Alice flew across the room and embraced Lucy. “Oh, my dear girl, that’s marvelous. I’m so happy for you.” She sat down on Lucy’s bed, tossing the newspaper aside. “Now, tell me all about it. How did this happen? When did it happen? I must confess you’ve completely taken me by surprise. I thought you two were at daggers drawn.” Beaming expectantly at Lucy, Alice folded her hands and waited for the details of the romance to be revealed.
Lucy shrugged uncomfortably. Alice had every right to feel put out at not being informed. Both of Lucy’s other suitors had asked Alice’s permission before proposing, and here, she and Gerald had gone ahead and announced it in the papers without informing anyone. Of course they were of age and had the right to make their own plans, but still, Alice had to feel a little hurt. And yet here she was, smiling so kindly at the girl who was deceiving her. And who was preparing to deceive her even further.
Lucy desperately wanted to let Alice in on the plot, but Gerald was right. Alice was a hopeless liar.
“It was at the Peplowe ball,” she began. “Gerald took over the spots where I’d arranged to sit out the waltzes—is that right, by the way? I can’t waltz anywhere until I have been approved to waltz at Almack’s?”
“Oh, who cares about that? He took over your spots?”
“Yes, he told Mr. Frinton and Mr. Grimswade that, as acting head of your family, he had the right to commandeer them.”
Alice gasped and then laughed. “Head of my family indeed! What nonsense! But how wonderfully masterful and romantic.”
“How arrogant, you mean. I was furious.”
Alice chuckled, clearly not believing her. “What happened next?”
“He took me out into the courtyard and we talked.” Having no wish to be questioned on the subject of their conversation, she hastily went on. “And later he did it again during the second waltz, only then he invited me to dance, out in the courtyard—it’s all right, we were quite alone and nobody saw us. But about that Almack’s question—”
“Ohhhh! A secret waltz in the moonlight. I would never have guessed Gerald had such romance in him. No wonder you were bowled over.”
Lucy smiled weakly. It might sound romantic, and in her secret heart she had to admit that she had found it romantic, but really, it was just a plan to trap her father.
Alice blanched on a sudden thought. “Oh heavens! Does Almeria—Lady Charlton, Gerald’s mother—know?”
Lucy shook her head. “No, we wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Well, it’s certainly that. Oh dear. Almeria will be around here any moment then, because of course she won’t be happy—and that’s an understatement if ever I’ve made one. She’ll be furious and blame me for it, even though I knew nothing about it.” She slipped off the bed. “Get dressed quickly. We’d better get ready.”
“Man the battlements? Start boiling the oil?” Lucy climbed out of bed.
Alice gave a huff of laughter. “You may joke, but you don’t know what she’s like.” At the door, she paused. “On second thought, you stay here. I’ll deal with her.”
“You? But you didn’t know anything about it. Why should you have to deal with her?”
“Because I’ve been dealing with Almeria for the last twenty years. Better still, why don’t you get dressed and go out into the garden as usual. I’ll be able to tell her then that you’re not in the house.”
Alice was planning to protect her, Lucy realized. Preparing to stand up to Gerald’s mother on her behalf. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone besides Alice had stood up for her. She was very touched.
She crossed the floor and gave Alice a quick hug. “Alice, you are a darling, but I am not going to run off and leave you to the dragon lady. Almeria doesn’t worry me. Besides, I watched how you handled her once. It taught me a lot.”
Alice looked at her curiously. “Really? What did it teach you?”
“Not to lose my temper or rise to her barbs. You were quite splendid.” Lucy shook out her dress and laid it on her bed. “Now, off you go. I’ll be downstairs shortly. And don’t worry—I’m not afraid of that woman.”
“Maybe not, but Lucy, she’s going to be your mother-in-law. For the rest of your life.”
Lucy shrugged. Almeria would never be her mother-in-law. “She’s been your sister-in-law for half your life. Has your careful politeness ever made any difference?”
Alice grimaced, then nodded. “I suppose you’re right. Begin as you mean to go on. With any luck, we’ll have time for breakfast before Almeria descends on us.”
“Like the Black Death. Or,” Lucy added mischievously, “should that be the Puce Plague?”