I’ll be well enough by Saturday. I think I must be coming down with a cold; my head aches.”
“What? But you always wish for more society! Of course you have a headache, reading all morning in that over-heated chamber of yours. Come and have a cup of tea. I’ll tell Mrs. Bentwood to make you a tisane.”
Short of being on her deathbed, Horatia realized her father would not take no for an answer. She sighed and followed him into the breakfast room.
“Wear that gown the color of a new penny, which suits your lovely hair, just like your mother’s,” he added in a wistful tone. He eyed her askance. “I’m not sure I like the way you’re wearing it today.”
Horatia put her hand to her hair. Drat. She’d forgotten she’d dragged it back to wear under the hat. It must look like a fright. “It was an experiment, Father, a new style in a magazine.”
“Hmm. Don’t care for it. Well, there’s naught that can take away from your looks, Horatia, but you should embellish them, my dear.” He put his hand to the fringe of greying hair that clustered around his ears. “A few curls, you know, the way women do.”
“Very well, Father. I’ll tell Sally to arrange it like that.” Horatia settled at the table. She buttered a piece of toast and forced it down with a sip of tea, almost choking at the thought of meeting the baron again, but she had to admit the prospect was exciting. He was by far the most fascinating man she’d ever met, although, by his own admission, he had certainly been a rake like his father. He intended to find a suitable wife, but would that put an end to his rakish ways?
He might break other women’s hearts, but he would not break hers. She had the advantage of being forewarned.
Chapter Five
Even though Horatia hoped Saturday would never come, it finally did. Her stomach churned every time she thought of the evening ahead.
In the afternoon, Fanny Kemble arrived in her carriage and hurried up the steps in her fur-trimmed blue pelisse and bonnet, her hands thrust into a fur muff.
Horatia rushed to greet her. She drew her into the parlor. “Fanny, how nice. I’ll ring for tea.”
“I had to promise to be home by four; otherwise, Mother would not have let me come. But to tell you the news,” Fanny said. “We had a visit yesterday from Lord Fortescue.”
Horatia’s stomach turned another revolution. “How did you find him?” She had never told Fanny about riding The General, aware that she would think her mad. And she thought it wise not to mention it now. Dear Fanny couldn’t always be relied on to keep a secret. Not that she would deliberately hurt a living soul, but her inherently honest nature made it impossible to keep things to herself.
Horatia envied Fanny for being one of those domesticated women who would be content to discuss menus with the cook and immerse herself in the running of her household. She couldn’t wait to find a husband and since her emergence from the schoolroom had gazed at every single male under five and thirty with that aim. Fanny’s Aunt Caroline was to chaperone her for the London season, which was only weeks away.
“Oh, Horatia, the baron is so handsome.” Fanny clasped her hands at her breast. “And so charming. What is it about the French accent? It makes even the most prosaic words quite romantic! The whole village talks of nothing but the prosperity his return will bring to the area. He told us of his plans to improve the house and grounds. I thought Rosecroft Hall was in need of refurbishment when last there.” She trilled with laughter. “Mama is beside herself!”
“He sounds interesting,” Horatia said.
“Interesting? Is that all you can say? Dear Horatia, if you won’t take your nose out of a book, I declare you’ll end up a spinster. And you are far too pretty for that.”
“I don’t have a particular wish to wed,” Horatia said. “Husbands have such power over their wives. As a single woman I may inherit, buy, sell,
“What? But you always wish for more society! Of course you have a headache, reading all morning in that over-heated chamber of yours. Come and have a cup of tea. I’ll tell Mrs. Bentwood to make you a tisane.”
Short of being on her deathbed, Horatia realized her father would not take no for an answer. She sighed and followed him into the breakfast room.
“Wear that gown the color of a new penny, which suits your lovely hair, just like your mother’s,” he added in a wistful tone. He eyed her askance. “I’m not sure I like the way you’re wearing it today.”
Horatia put her hand to her hair. Drat. She’d forgotten she’d dragged it back to wear under the hat. It must look like a fright. “It was an experiment, Father, a new style in a magazine.”
“Hmm. Don’t care for it. Well, there’s naught that can take away from your looks, Horatia, but you should embellish them, my dear.” He put his hand to the fringe of greying hair that clustered around his ears. “A few curls, you know, the way women do.”
“Very well, Father. I’ll tell Sally to arrange it like that.” Horatia settled at the table. She buttered a piece of toast and forced it down with a sip of tea, almost choking at the thought of meeting the baron again, but she had to admit the prospect was exciting. He was by far the most fascinating man she’d ever met, although, by his own admission, he had certainly been a rake like his father. He intended to find a suitable wife, but would that put an end to his rakish ways?
He might break other women’s hearts, but he would not break hers. She had the advantage of being forewarned.
Chapter Five
Even though Horatia hoped Saturday would never come, it finally did. Her stomach churned every time she thought of the evening ahead.
In the afternoon, Fanny Kemble arrived in her carriage and hurried up the steps in her fur-trimmed blue pelisse and bonnet, her hands thrust into a fur muff.
Horatia rushed to greet her. She drew her into the parlor. “Fanny, how nice. I’ll ring for tea.”
“I had to promise to be home by four; otherwise, Mother would not have let me come. But to tell you the news,” Fanny said. “We had a visit yesterday from Lord Fortescue.”
Horatia’s stomach turned another revolution. “How did you find him?” She had never told Fanny about riding The General, aware that she would think her mad. And she thought it wise not to mention it now. Dear Fanny couldn’t always be relied on to keep a secret. Not that she would deliberately hurt a living soul, but her inherently honest nature made it impossible to keep things to herself.
Horatia envied Fanny for being one of those domesticated women who would be content to discuss menus with the cook and immerse herself in the running of her household. She couldn’t wait to find a husband and since her emergence from the schoolroom had gazed at every single male under five and thirty with that aim. Fanny’s Aunt Caroline was to chaperone her for the London season, which was only weeks away.
“Oh, Horatia, the baron is so handsome.” Fanny clasped her hands at her breast. “And so charming. What is it about the French accent? It makes even the most prosaic words quite romantic! The whole village talks of nothing but the prosperity his return will bring to the area. He told us of his plans to improve the house and grounds. I thought Rosecroft Hall was in need of refurbishment when last there.” She trilled with laughter. “Mama is beside herself!”
“He sounds interesting,” Horatia said.
“Interesting? Is that all you can say? Dear Horatia, if you won’t take your nose out of a book, I declare you’ll end up a spinster. And you are far too pretty for that.”
“I don’t have a particular wish to wed,” Horatia said. “Husbands have such power over their wives. As a single woman I may inherit, buy, sell,
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