The Fugitive Heiress Read Online Free PDF Page A

deeply, then gave herself a little shake and touched her cap as though to be sure it was on straight. With a glance at the closed door, she observed that she could not imagine what was keeping her daughter.
    Catheryn had been wondering if the afflicted damsel would put in an appearance at all. Having managed a hearty meal during the countess’s discourse, she now eyed the nearly empty tea tray with misgiving but salved her conscience with the thought that, should Lady Tiffany prove to be hungry, the tray could be replenished. Helping herself to another cake, she noted that the countess seemed to have fallen into a brown study and returned to her own reflections.
    Her conversation with the earl had left her with the impression that he was a fair-minded, intelligent man who would not easily be influenced by anyone. His air of command was almost awe-inspiring. Clearly, he expected instant obedience from his household and would not long tolerate such behavior as his sister seemed capable of displaying. He was cold, aloof, exacting, probably arrogant, certainly challenging, elegant, suave, vastly intriguing—and quite above your touch, my girl, she told herself sternly.
    Forcing her thoughts into a new direction, she considered the countess, who was everything her Aunt Agatha was not. Lady Caston—tall, thick-waisted, horse-faced, and crisp-voiced—displayed an air of the grande dame that was totally lacking in the countess. Making the fetter’s acquaintance was truly a novel experience. Her impulsive generosity was captivating, and Catheryn felt, without understanding the feeling, that she had known her for many years. Clearly, Lady Dambroke had little if any sense of duty to her children and was primarily interested in her own comfort and pleasure. Some of the things she had said were downright shocking, but Catheryn found her delightfully charming nonetheless and willingly overlooked them. At this point her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. She raised her eyes and nearly exclaimed aloud at the vision they encountered.
    Lady Tiffany Dambroke stood on the threshold, her hand resting lightly on the door handle. Her slimness made her appear teller than she actually was, and the raven curls piled high atop her exquisitely shaped little head added to the illusion. She was attired in an elegant afternoon gown of rose twilled sarcenet, cut simply and caught in high above the waist with a white silk ribbon, the ends of which trailed to the hem. The dress was cut low at the bosom, and a rope of seed pearls was wrapped twice around her lovely throat. The color of the gown seemed to be reflected in her glorious complexion and also, Catheryn thought stupidly, in her eyes. This thought and the realization that she was staring rudely brought Miss Westering to her senses. She dragged her gaze back to her hostess.
    “I’m pleased you decided to join us, Tiffany dear,” that lady was saying mildly. “Allow me to make Miss Westering known to you.” Tiffany let the door swing to behind her and advanced into the room. “My daughter, Lady Tiffany, Catheryn. Pay no heed to her attitudes, if you please. She merely puts on airs to be interesting.”
    Nothing daunted by this stricture, Tiffany held out a beautifully manicured hand and made a slight bow. Catheryn wondered briefly if she was expected to kiss the hand. Mentally shaking herself, she arose with her customary grace, politely offered two fingers, and returned the curtsey. Barely allowing their fingers to touch, Tiffany moved to the tea tray and poured out a cup for herself.
    “I collect, Miss Westering,” she said loftily, seating herself on a small gilt and velvet chair opposite the sofa, “that you are in some manner related to us. I don’t believe I’ve heard your name mentioned before this day, however.”
    Before Catheryn could gather her wits to answer this haughty speech, the countess interposed, “For heaven’s sake, Tiffany! Do try for a