Suzanne Robinson by Lady Hellfire Read Free Book Online

“You’ll have to steady the hoop while I get in.”
    “How did you manage before I came?”
    Ophelia flushed. “With the help of a maid, but these new skirts are wider than ever. I’ve never had this much trouble.”
    With the groom assisting from the other side of the carriage, Ophelia was levered into place. Kate climbed in, swatted a bowed portion of the crinoline down beneath her own skirts, and sat on it.
    “You’ll wrinkle me!”
    Kate got up again. It took another few moments to dispose of Ophelia’s skirts to her satisfaction. By then what was left of Kate’s good humor had evaporated.
    They set out at a quick pace. For once it wasn’t raining, and the sun made the dew on the grass and leaves sparkle silver and white. Unfortunately, a line of black clouds was amassing over the trees at the horizon. Kate groaned when she saw it. Resting her arm on the side of the carriage, she drummed her fingers. She noticed the shiny black of her sleeve and the snowy froth of the undersleeve. Mourning. She was in mourning for Papa. Hellfire, she was going to cry. No, no she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t think about Papa.
    She glanced at Ophelia. She and her cousin had corresponded ever since Kate had gone home after her first visit, and their friendship had strengthened. Underneath all that blond hair of Ophelia’s was a head full of ideas. Like Kate, Ophelia was interested in books and politics. She simply never let anyone know about it, and all her practicing at appearing not to have any intelligence had withered some of her natural sense.
    Also like Kate, Ophelia wore mourning, but for her recently dead husband as well as her mother. Ophelia’s heart was in the grave now that she was a widow. Kate knew that because Ophelia kept repeating it, usually withan accompanying dab at a tearless eye with one of her black-bordered handkerchiefs. How anyone’s heart could be buried in the same hole with the red-nosed, corpulent Earl of Swinburn mystified Kate.
    She was equally mystified as to why Ophelia had rushed into marriage with the old bore so soon after declaring her quest for the dark and serious Marquess of Richfield. Yet she’d betrothed herself and married within a few months of that cursed ball, only to lose the earl, wrinkles, red nose, and all, in January of the new year.
    Ophelia’s grief was as artistic as it was voluble. She languished. She fluttered and kissed her husband’s picture, especially in the company of any gentleman who called to express sympathy. Her mourning clothes were in the latest styles from Paris, her ornaments of the costliest jet. Kate had merely had all her dresses dyed. Wearing mourning wouldn’t bring Papa back, and she didn’t care if she was fashionable.
    “Turnpenny,” Ophelia said, tapping her parasol on the floor of the carriage. “Turnpenny, do hurry. I want to get to the Tower before I lose this marvelous light for my painting.”
    “Yes, mum.”
    Kate eyed the ribbons and netting of Ophelia’s bonnet before speaking in a low voice. “Afraid we’ll be late and his high and mighty lordship will bolt?”
    “Shhhh!”
    “I think you’re as daft as the girl you’re named for. He didn’t marry you the first time.”
    “You little squit, keep your voice down.” Ophelia opened her parasol and positioned it so that they were concealed from the backs of the coachman and groom. “You said you didn’t mind. All you have to do is drive about for an hour and then come back for me.”
    “I don’t mind, but I think you’re a fool. My maid says that since he recovered from his Crimean wounds, he’sspent most of his nights somewhere else besides his own bed.”
    “With maids and kitchen girls, I’m sure. They probably throw themselves at his feet or drag him into haystacks.”
    Kate couldn’t see the difference between entertaining Alexis de Granville in a musty old Tower and allowing him liberties in a haystack. She didn’t say so, however.
    “You don’t like him