Trapped at the Altar by Jane Feather Read Free Book Online Page B

black one that goes so well with cheddar?”
    Patiently, Tilly reached into a cupboard and set a jar of pickled vegetables on the table. “Where it always is, Miss Ari.” She eased off the tight lid, and the aromatic spicy fragrance filled the air.
    â€œForgive me, I’m not thinking straight today.” She cut another hunk of cheese and spread it with the thick, dark mixture.
    Tilly nodded sagely. “No wonder, miss, so soon as it is after his lordship’s death.”
    Ari agreed with a quick smile of thanks as she ate the cheese and pickle. Her makeshift meal cried out for a tankard of dark October ale, but the wine would flow too freely this evening, and she had no desire to put herself at a disadvantage she could avoid.
    â€œYou’ll be getting dressed, then, miss?” Briskly, Tilly put away the cheese and sealed the jar of pickle, clearly indicating that Ari had dallied long enough. “I’ll fetch some hot water for you.” She looked at her mistress closely. “Looks like you could do with a wash.”
    Ariadne could have guessed how she looked even without Ivor’s blunt assessment earlier, but she wasn’t about to go into explanations with Tilly. She liked her, enjoyed her company, and appreciated her help, but she wouldn’t burden her with a confidence she would find hard to keep. “I was walking above and lost track of the time,” she said vaguely. “I had to run back.”
    Tilly seemed to find this perfectly acceptable and went to the range to fill a bowl with hot water from the steaming kettle on the hob. She set it on the table. “I’ll fetch soap and towel. Your gown is all ready for you.”
    â€œMy thanks, Tilly.” Ariadne kicked off her slippers and sat on a stool to unroll her woolen stockings. They were torn at the heel, she noticed, and a moment came to her, vivid as if it were happening now, of digging her stockinged feet into the moss against a tree root as she moved her body in rhythm with Gabriel’s, a swift rhythm building to a glorious crescendo.
    She balled them up as Tilly set soap and towel on the table beside the bowl of water. “These need darning at the heel, Tilly. They must have worn thin.” She tossed them into the wicker mending basket beside the range, then stood up to shrug off her jacket and unbutton her now less-than-pristine white shirt. Her skirt followed suit and then her chemise and petticoat. Naked, she dipped a washcloth into the basin and sponged her body, aware of how sweaty and grimy she was. She needed a full dip in the copper tub rather than this spit and polish of a wash, but there was no time for such luxury this evening.
    She dried herself briskly on the rough towel before stepping into a crisply starched white cambric petticoat and then a low-necked cambric chemise edged with lace. “You’ll need another two petticoats, Miss Ari, for the gown to fall properly.” Tilly took the stiff garments from the large oak linen press in the far corner of the chamber.
    Ari pulled a face. She disliked wearing so many undergarments, but she could not appear dressed withoutceremony at her grandfather’s wake. It would be considered outrageously disrespectful. She let Tilly drop the garments over her head and tie the ribbons at her waist. She peered down at herself as she adjusted the décolleté neckline of the chemise to show just the beginning swell of her breasts. Unfortunately, she was so ill favored in that area of her anatomy that there was very little to show for her efforts, she reflected disgustedly. Why couldn’t she have taken after her mother instead of some obscure, tiny-boned, vertically challenged ancestor? Her mother had been robust, with an ample bosom and wide hips. Her father had been a typical Daunt. Tall, powerful, muscular, strong enough to pull an oxcart if it were required of him.
    And between them, those two had produced this diminutive