and curves of her body. At the back, a mass of elaborate draperies fell to the ground in a train of lace-edged flounces. The neckline, low and square, hinted at the merest shadow of her cleavage.
‘ Magnifique ,’ trilled Pascale, her face glowing withsatisfaction. ‘Your betrothed will demand an earlier wedding when he sees you tonight.’
‘Thank you, Pascale. That will be all,’ said Clarissa coolly. ‘I shall ring if I need you.’
Clarissa crossed to the window and opened a chink in the curtains. She would not descend until Lord Alexander arrived. Then she would sweep into the room and he would rise to greet her, a smile of admiration and desire lighting up his handsome face.
She watched the carriages rumbling along the cobbled road of the Embankment below. Each one sent her hopes soaring and plunging. He was late, perhaps only ten minutes, but nevertheless he was late. While society might consider that fashionable, Clarissa couldn’t help thinking it was just a little rude.
She brushed her cheek against the velvet curtains, imagining the touch was that of Lord Alexander, a gentle caress. Her lips skimmed the soft fabric in a breath-light kiss.
‘Please, my love,’ she whispered, ‘don’t be too fashionable.’
In the flock-papered drawing room the gaslights purred gently in their sconces. Alicia Longleigh, in silks of caramel and gold, sat in a deep-buttoned armchair. Her head was bowed over an open book and her smile was serene. Standing before the marble chimney piece was Charles Longleigh, thickset and bewhiskered, his thumbs stuck in his waistcoat pockets. Occasionally he rocked forward on to the balls of his feet, pulled out his watch, or cleared his throat.
On the mantelshelf, the ormolu clock ticked with loud impatience.
The kitchen window was open wide. The heat from the range and smells of roasted meats drifted upwards into the yellowing gas-lit street. Kitty and cook sat at the enormous pine table, each cradling a glass of sherry.
Scullery maids weren’t allowed sherry but Kitty wasn’t a scullery maid any more. She was a housemaid and she was the best housemaid that ever there was. All day she’d been rushing round, fetching this, cleaning that, polishing the other, and not once had she complained. She’d helped lay out all the crystal, the hams and the jellies. And she’d done marvels in fancying up the dining table with flowers and candelabras. It looked a treat upstairs and, like cook said, they’d earned themselves a drink.
The sherry, rich and syrupy, warmed her insides like nothing else. The first glass had slipped down so quickly she’d had to ask for a second. Cook had looked a little doubtful, then she’d said, ‘Ah, bugger it,’ and poured some more. Kitty was beginning to feel all soft and giddy.
Cook wasn’t in much of a mood for talking though. Her face was one big scowl, but Kitty didn’t mind. She was happy enough just sitting there, dreaming about her farmhand, Tom. He had a lovely prick and a good hard thrust in his body. And he was a dab-hand at finding sneaky places to do a bit of sweethearting. Kitty’s thoughts drifted until suddenly she cocked her head to one side and frowned at the tureen.
‘Why hasn’t that soup gone up yet?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t they hungry upstairs?’
‘It ain’t gone up yet,’ said cook, straightening her back defiantly, ‘because his lordship ain’t bloomin’ well arrived. Hasn’t even sent word on to say as he’ll be late. No manners ain’t rich folk. No bloomin’ manners.’
‘Oh,’ said Kitty, draining the last of her sherry. It was to be hoped the meat didn’t get all dried up. Then her blood turned to ice and a great mallet thumped in her guts.
‘Oh, lord,’ she breathed, fumbling in her pocket. She rose unsteadily to her feet and pulled out the crumpled letter. ‘Oh, lord ha’ mercy.’
* * *
There was an almighty shout. Clarissa’s stomach lurched. She hurried to the bedroom door and, picking
‘ Magnifique ,’ trilled Pascale, her face glowing withsatisfaction. ‘Your betrothed will demand an earlier wedding when he sees you tonight.’
‘Thank you, Pascale. That will be all,’ said Clarissa coolly. ‘I shall ring if I need you.’
Clarissa crossed to the window and opened a chink in the curtains. She would not descend until Lord Alexander arrived. Then she would sweep into the room and he would rise to greet her, a smile of admiration and desire lighting up his handsome face.
She watched the carriages rumbling along the cobbled road of the Embankment below. Each one sent her hopes soaring and plunging. He was late, perhaps only ten minutes, but nevertheless he was late. While society might consider that fashionable, Clarissa couldn’t help thinking it was just a little rude.
She brushed her cheek against the velvet curtains, imagining the touch was that of Lord Alexander, a gentle caress. Her lips skimmed the soft fabric in a breath-light kiss.
‘Please, my love,’ she whispered, ‘don’t be too fashionable.’
In the flock-papered drawing room the gaslights purred gently in their sconces. Alicia Longleigh, in silks of caramel and gold, sat in a deep-buttoned armchair. Her head was bowed over an open book and her smile was serene. Standing before the marble chimney piece was Charles Longleigh, thickset and bewhiskered, his thumbs stuck in his waistcoat pockets. Occasionally he rocked forward on to the balls of his feet, pulled out his watch, or cleared his throat.
On the mantelshelf, the ormolu clock ticked with loud impatience.
The kitchen window was open wide. The heat from the range and smells of roasted meats drifted upwards into the yellowing gas-lit street. Kitty and cook sat at the enormous pine table, each cradling a glass of sherry.
Scullery maids weren’t allowed sherry but Kitty wasn’t a scullery maid any more. She was a housemaid and she was the best housemaid that ever there was. All day she’d been rushing round, fetching this, cleaning that, polishing the other, and not once had she complained. She’d helped lay out all the crystal, the hams and the jellies. And she’d done marvels in fancying up the dining table with flowers and candelabras. It looked a treat upstairs and, like cook said, they’d earned themselves a drink.
The sherry, rich and syrupy, warmed her insides like nothing else. The first glass had slipped down so quickly she’d had to ask for a second. Cook had looked a little doubtful, then she’d said, ‘Ah, bugger it,’ and poured some more. Kitty was beginning to feel all soft and giddy.
Cook wasn’t in much of a mood for talking though. Her face was one big scowl, but Kitty didn’t mind. She was happy enough just sitting there, dreaming about her farmhand, Tom. He had a lovely prick and a good hard thrust in his body. And he was a dab-hand at finding sneaky places to do a bit of sweethearting. Kitty’s thoughts drifted until suddenly she cocked her head to one side and frowned at the tureen.
‘Why hasn’t that soup gone up yet?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t they hungry upstairs?’
‘It ain’t gone up yet,’ said cook, straightening her back defiantly, ‘because his lordship ain’t bloomin’ well arrived. Hasn’t even sent word on to say as he’ll be late. No manners ain’t rich folk. No bloomin’ manners.’
‘Oh,’ said Kitty, draining the last of her sherry. It was to be hoped the meat didn’t get all dried up. Then her blood turned to ice and a great mallet thumped in her guts.
‘Oh, lord,’ she breathed, fumbling in her pocket. She rose unsteadily to her feet and pulled out the crumpled letter. ‘Oh, lord ha’ mercy.’
* * *
There was an almighty shout. Clarissa’s stomach lurched. She hurried to the bedroom door and, picking
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