The American Heiress Read Online Free PDF Page B

Bridport I will be down directly.’ Cora turned to Bertha. ‘Can you tell Mother that Lord Bridport insisted that we leave promptly, which means I didn’t have time to visit her this morning.’
    ‘She won’t be happy, Miss Cora. You know how she likes to make sure you look the part.’
    ‘I know, I know, but I don’t have time to stand there while she picks over me. It is bad enough being sneered at by all those English ladies with their red hands and their small blue eyes looking at me as if I was a savage. I don’t need Mother telling me how her whole happiness depends on seeing me splendidly married.’ Cora picked up her ivory-handled crop and brandished it at her maid. Bertha looked at her wearily.
    ‘I’ll pass on the message to the Madam. What do you want to wear tonight?’
    ‘The pink mousseline from Madame Fromont, I think. It will make all those English hags green with envy. Shame I can’t wear the bill around my neck. I would like to see their faces when they realise that I can spend more on one dress than they spend on their clothes in a year. They’re all so dowdy, and yet they dare to look down their long dripping noses at me, even though they’re all desperate for me to marry one of their nambypamby sons.’ Cora brought the crop down on the bed with a thwack.
    She smiled when she saw Lincoln waiting for her in the stable yard, twitching his head impatiently. A sixteen-hand grey stallion, Lincoln was the finest product of her father’s stables. Cora was not ready to admit that she might find a British horse to suit her, so she had brought her favourite hunters with her, walking them every day on the deck of the SS Aspen , her father’s steam yacht. Lincoln’s breath condensed in a white cloud in the chill January morning. There had been a frost and the ground was white and hazy with mist. But the sun was beginning to break through and for the first time since she had come to England, miserable and guilty about her mother’s accident, Cora felt excited at the thought of the day to come. To ride as hard as she could, with no conversation to make or customs to observe, was an irresistible prospect. She felt as if she had taken off more than her corset. She felt unbound.
    The Myddleton considered itself the finest hunt in the southwest. Lord Bridport, the Master, was stingy when it came to his house and children but stinted nothing on his beloved hounds. His mother had been one of the first society ladies to ride to hounds and the Myddleton was now as famous for its ‘Dianas’ as for the quality of the sport. Mrs Wyndham had looked Cora over in her drawing room in Mayfair and had declared, ‘The Myddleton for you, my dear. I think you will keep up.’
    At the time Cora had not been quite sure of the older lady’s meaning, but now, as she rode up after Lord Bridport, she understood that the competition had already begun. So far her exposure to smart British womanhood had been restricted; Cora and her mother had arrived in London at the end of the season when all the people of fashion had left for the country, or else were lying low so as not to draw attention to the fact that they had no estates to go to. Lord Bridport’s wife and daughter were not in Cora’s view ‘smart’ even if they could trace their lineage back to the Conqueror. But here were women whose Busvine habits fitted as closely as her own. Her appearance did not cause the ripple of anticipation that always heralded her arrival anywhere in her native country. Not a single shining head turned in her direction as she followed Lord Bridport into the throng. Cora was not sure how she felt about this, to be anonymous was an unfamiliar sensation.
    ‘Ah Charlotte, may I introduce you to Miss Cash. Miss Cash, my niece by marriage, Lady Beauchamp.’
    A blond head turned fractionally in her direction and gave her the faintest of nods.
    ‘And here is my nephew Odo. Miss Cora Cash – Sir Odo Beauchamp.’
    Odo Beauchamp put even his