Princess Charming Read Online Free PDF Page B

reminded Lucy of an overfed cat.
    “Indeed?” the duchess intoned. “Pray tell, Miss Lucy Charming, where else have you been this afternoon?”
    Anger rose within her, but she tamped it down. It would do no good. Just as it would do no good to point out that she was not Miss Lucy Charming. She was Lady Lucy Charming, daughter of the late duke, and she outranked everyone in the room save for the duchess herself.
    “I daresay she’s been fraternizing with the servants,” a new voice drawled from near the window. Lucy started and looked up to find the cold green eyes of the Reverend Mr. Whippet staring her down. His gaze lingered on Lucy’s modest bosom as he left his position by the curtains and moved toward the duchess. Lucy suppressed the shudder that rippled through her. The vicar had repulsed her even before the night he’d found her father’s body in the library of Charming Hall. Since then, his insinuations about her father’s death had frightened Lucy even more than his lecherous looks.
    “Indeed, it is a good thing you have kept her out of society, Your Grace,” the clergyman added. “Before one could circle a ballroom, she would be belowstairs preaching revolution to the servants.”
    Lucy bit her tongue with all her might, or at least with as much might as the tender appendage would allow. The Reverend Mr. Whippet held the living of the parish of Charming Hall, but he was scarcely to be found at his duties. He had become more of a personal chaplain to Her Grace than anything else, and her stepmother consumed his every toad-eating word like manna from heaven. The woman might be a duchess, but she’d been born to the shop. Mr. Whippet, on the other hand, was genteel by birth, even if he was only the grandson of an earl.
    Her stepmother sighed dramatically. “You have the right of it, my dear Mr. Whippet. An embarrassment to the family, to be sure, but what else is to be done? She is, after all, her father’s daughter, willing to give every laborer and tradesman the vote.” The look she turned on Lucy did nothing to conceal the malice that lay at the duchess’s core. “At least in our kitchen she has no one with whom to foment revolution.”
    A sharp retort sprang to Lucy’s tongue, but she refused to give the duchess the satisfaction of goading her into indiscretion. Bertha giggled, revealing bits of sandwich caught between her teeth. “Indeed, Mama, she can hardly breed discontent belowstairs,” she trilled. “Unless, of course, the pots and pans can be given the vote.”
    Lucy swallowed. “Suffrage is the right of every man.”
    “What was that?” Mr. Whippet barked. The duchess swiveled her head toward Lucy as fast as her turban would allow.
    “Yes, Lucy, what did you say?” Her eyes narrowed, but Lucy refused to flinch. If she were going to be made a martyr, she refused to go meekly.
    “I said—”
    The drawing room door swung open, and Scarborough, the ancient family butler, stepped inside with a small silver platter in hand, a white calling card resting atop the tray. “Viscount Wellstone, madam,” he intoned, his voice resonating in the sudden silence.
    Lucy blanched. The dratted gardener had obviously gone to his employer forthwith, and Lady Belmont had dispatched her grandson to find the offending maid at Nottingham House. Bertha squealed at the news of the viscount’s arrival and brushed the crumbs from her bosom, tugging the neckline of her bodice lower with startling effect. Esmie glanced up from her book. The duchess actually rose from her reclining position and set both feet to the floor. Mr. Whippet bristled, angry that his lone masculine status in the room was now challenged.
    Lucy watched with apprehension as the elegant Lord Wellstone entered the room and moved toward her stepmother. “Good day, Your Grace.” He smiled and bowed, and her stepmother’s face flushed with pleasure. Lucy’s stomach knotted.
    “My lord.” The duchess inclined her head. The plumes on her