very uncomfortable. She sat on the cerulean sofa, her back ramrod straight, her long, gloved hands folded in her lap, and considered taking off her glasses so as to dull the effect of the rococo trim on the walls. She glanced upward, as if seeking heavenly guidance, only to find a painted ceiling that was a far cry from the Italian masters who had perfected the art. She lowered her eyes to her lap again, looked at the gray kid gloves that lay against her gray wool skirt and sighed.
She hadn’t a vain bone in her body, but surely a new dress now and then shouldn’t be too much to ask. Except, of course, that her visitations were that of a guest, not an employee, and one could not accept anything so personal as a gift. Lady Prentice had paid for her wardrobe when her father died, mourning and demi-mourning, all of the best cloth that lasted forever and would never wear out, so Annelise went through her drab life in drab colors, and probably would until she died.
She’d considered eating huge amounts of food so that the clothes would no longer fit her, but unfortunately her constitution was such that she could never put any extra weight on her spare body. When she did, it went straight to her already full breasts, and that was not a part of her anatomy that she cared to have straining at the dull gray cloth.
She reached up and moved her spectacles up a bit. She needed them more for reading than anything else, but felt they gave her a distinguished air that went well with her narrow, plain face and severe hair. She looked like what she was: a well-bred virgin of no attraction and therefore worthy of no untoward attention.
She dropped her glasses back down on her straight nose and sighed again. A lesser woman would have relaxed her backbone, at least while no one was there, but the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton was no such laggard. She sat, and she waited, until she heard the sound of voices and laughter from the hall beyond the closed doors.
It was late morning—prime visiting time, but she had been told—no, requested—to arrive then, and so she had. Her clothes had already been taken to a guest bedroom, and all that was needed was to meet her host and his young daughter so she could decide just how much work lay ahead of her.
It was always difficult for people to assess her position in their households. Sometimes she was put in one of the better guest rooms, other times she was put in a place little better than a maid’s room. Having had a good look at the decor in Chipple House, she was rather hoping for the latter this time around. Mr. Chipple’s propensity for bright colors would be hard to live with, and few people bothered to do more than was absolutely necessary with the rooms the servants inhabited. As long as she had her own room she would be content. She had an aversion to sharing a bed with a stranger, particularly since most people she knew didn’t share her affection for frequent bathing. It was the one thing she insisted on, and she usually got her way.
She heard the sounds of a man’s voice—low, beguiling and too quiet for her to make out the words, but the timbre of it was doubtless irresistible. Not her host. It could only be her young charge who shrieked with unseemly laughter, and there was no missing the booming jocularity of another man, one who must be her host. Josiah Chipple was a self-made man, and his origins showed in his speech. She wondered if she’d be required to work on that, as well.
She was up to any task they asked of her, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. She would smile, nod and behave herself unless pushed too far, and then Miss Chipple would marry gloriously and the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton would move on to her next station on the road of life.
She was getting disgustingly maudlin, Annelise thought to herself, dismissing the morbid thought. She was in London, the most fascinating city in the world; she would doubtless be warm, comfortable and well fed. There would be books aplenty in this house to keep her occupied when she wasn’t making certain Miss Hetty was behaving herself. And this way she was dependent on no one’s charity, always a boon.
She could hear the heavy thud of the front door, the sounds of footsteps as they moved back toward the reception room she sat in, and she waited, half expecting to hear the crash of one of those huge statues. Instead she heard voices. Miss Hetty Chipple was not happy to have her here.
“Why do I have to do this, Father?” she asked in a plaintive tone. Even muffled through the thick doors it was not an unattractive voice, despite the faint whine. She had the proper, classless diction of a well-brought-up young lady—at least Annelise wouldn’t be charged with a sow’s ear.
The rumbling voice of her father was far less genteel. “Because I say you do, pet,” he said. “You’ll be moving into a new life, far grander than any one you’ve ever known, and there are all sorts of tricks and rules an old sea dog like me would never know. I want the best for you, Hetty, and I intend to pay for it. Besides, the Honorable Miss Kempton is doing this out of the kindness of her heart.”
“Ha!” said Miss Hetty.
“Ha!” thought Miss Kempton, grimacing. And then rose gracefully as the door opened and she caught her first glimpse of the young lady.
To call Hetty Chipple a pretty young lady would be an understatement of the grossest order. She was breathtaking, from the top of her golden curls to the slippers on her tiny feet. Her waist was tiny, her breasts were pleasing, her eyes a bright, cerulean blue (obviously her doting father had been trying to match their hue when he’d had this room painted), her mouth a Cupid’s bow. She moved into the room with a consummate grace that made the usually elegant Annelise feel awkward, and when she smiled politely she exposed perfect white teeth.
Josiah Chipple was just as she’d imagined him, a plain, no-nonsense sort of man in a plain coat of brown superfine. He had big, hamlike hands, a nose that had been broken at least once, beetling brows and a stubborn jaw. “My dear Miss Kempton!” he said with his thick, Lancashire accent. “You do honor to our poor household. We are both so sorry we kept you waiting, when you’ve been so kind as to accept our invitation. We had an unexpected visitor—”
“My future husband,” Hetty interrupted.
Her father cast her a reproving look. “Now, now, Hetty, we’re not rushing into anything. You can have your pick of almost anyone on the marriage mart—no sense jumping at the first stallion who wanders into the pasture.”
“He’s not the first—but he’s the prettiest,” Hetty said defiantly.
“We’ll see. The season has just begun. Why don’t you show Miss Kempton to her rooms? She must be exhausted from her travels.”
Annelise hadn’t had a chance to say a word yet, an unusual occurrence in her voluble life. “I came from my godmother’s,” she said, “in Kensington. It wasn’t far at all. I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Chipple.” If he wasn’t going to do the honors then she’d have to gently coax him in the right direction. “I’m so happy you’ve invited me to stay. And this must be Miss Hetty.”
“Who else would I be?” Hetty responded.
Annelise kept her smile firmly planted on her face, disguising her clenched teeth. “Indeed, and quite charming you are,” she said in dulcet tones. “But you’ll find that proper introductions tend to take up a fair amount of time in polite society. A bore, but necessary.”
Josiah Chipple beamed, unabashed at his own error. “You see, Hetty. She’ll show you just how to get on. Should have done introductions first, of course. Why don’t you two girls go on up and get Miss Kempton settled in? I’m sure you’ll have a lot in common.”
Thirteen years separated the two girls, Annelise thought, and probably the only thing they had in common was their nationality and their gender. And most young men would probably take issue with the latter.
