Miss Marianne's Disgrace Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    The other young ladies in the country were planning amusements for the autumn while the experiences of their last Season in London were still fresh. Those not dreaming of winter balls and house parties were at home with the husbands they’d landed in the spring, or tending to their new babies. There was little for Marianne to look forward to, or to keep the days from passing, one dreary, empty one after another.
    She dipped her teaspoon into her tea and listlessly swirled the dark brown water. She should be thankful for the tedium. She didn’t want to flirt with temptation and discover she really was no better than the gossips believed.
    â€˜Speaking of things to do.’ Lady Ellington took up a letter from the table beside her, eyeing Marianne with a whiff of mischief. ‘Mrs Stevens sent a note asking after me. Tomorrow, we’ll pay her a call and thank her and her son for their help.’
    Marianne paused over her teacup, the steam rising to sweep her nose. ‘So soon?’
    â€˜I’m not sick enough to lie about all week and I want to see how the repairs to Priorton Abbey are coming. Be a dear and bring me my writing box. I’ll send a note to Mrs Stevens right away.’
    With some reluctance, Marianne set down her cup and made for the writing desk. There was no good excuse she could contrive for why they shouldn’t go. After all, they did owe them thanks for their help. She liked Mrs Stevens. She couldn’t say the same about Sir Warren. Despite his assistance, in the end, his response to her had been no different from anyone else’s outside the Falconbridge family. His all but running from her still grated. Who was he to cast judgement? He was no hereditary baronet, only a writer with the Prince Regent for an admirer.
    Then again, who was she? The only relation of London’s most notorious lady scoundrel.
    She paused over the lacquer writing box, the Falconbridge family crest gold and red against a three-pointed shield. The loneliness which had haunted Marianne since childhood filled her again. It was the same aching pain she used to experience each Christmas at the Protestant School in France when all the other girls had received packages from their families while she’d received nothing. Madame de Badeau had never sent Marianne so much as a letter during all the time she’d spent at the school. The only thing she’d done was arrive on Marianne’s tenth birthday and take her from the only family she’d ever known and carry her off to England before the Peace of Amiens had failed. On her way to London, Madame de Badeau had dumped her with the Smith family, all but forgetting about her for another six years until she’d thought it time for Marianne to marry. Then she’d dragged her to London to try and pawn her off on any dissolute lord who took an interest in her, no matter how old. Only Marianne’s stubbornness had kept her from the altar.
    A proud, wicked smile curled Marianne’s lips. Madame de Badeau’s face had practically turned purple when Marianne had tossed Lord Bolton’s roses back at him when he’d knelt to propose. It had been worth the beating to defy the nasty woman.
    Marianne’s smile faded and with it her determined spirit. In the end, Madame de Badeau had got her revenge and ruined Marianne’s life.
    She grasped the cold metal handles on either side of the box. It didn’t matter. There was nothing she could do except bear it as she had all the other disappointments and insults the woman had heaped on her. She started to heave the box from the table when the door swung open, stopping her.
    â€˜Lady Ellington, how are you?’ Cecelia, Marchioness of Falconbridge, moved as fast as a lady so heavy with her second child could to hug Lady Ellington. Her husband, the Marquess of Falconbridge, followed behind. Lord Falconbridge was tall with a square jaw and straight nose, his blue eyes made more