Tight Laced Read Online Free PDF

The worst explosion, they are saying. Over two-hundred men, perished.”
    The duke. That was his mine. Well, he was an investor, anyway. And her father had somehow been involved. “I see,” Lacy said, forcing a calm tone to her quivering voice. “Where is the duke now?”
    “He is trying to get a coach out. His horse is suffering from the colic this morning.”
    “We have horses. Is my stepmother not making them ready for the man?”
    “I know not, m’lady. Perhaps you can intervene?”
    Lady Lacilia pointed to her wardrobe. “Please help me into something quickly. Something loose and flowing. We have no time for tight-lacing this morning.”
    “But, Lady Lacy, your paramatta! Certainly, you cannot forget the mourning attire requi—”
    “My father’s honor and legacy will be further compromised if we don’t attend to this disaster post haste. Fetch me the loose emerald gown and some fresh knickers.”
    The maid gasped.
    “What?”
    “Miss Lacilia. Really? Cannot you put your scandalous ways aside during this sad time?”
    “Tansom, my father encouraged my pursuit of art. You know that. I am an aesthete, and Lord Bloomsbury would have no quarrel with it.”
    “M’lady, with all respect, Lord Bloomsbury has passed, and the Lady feels quite differently.”
    At reference to her stepmother, Lacy flushed with anger and pushed past the maid, retrieving her clothing herself. “Time is wasting, Tansom. Now, prepare a toilette and quickly!”

    “We have a little matter to settle before you dash off, Your Grace.”
    The widow’s unyielding manner in the face of calamity was nothing less than incredulous. Duke Darlington, in his formal frock coat but without the cravat of yesterday, paced the parlor. “We can revisit this matter at a later date. I beg of you, I need two horses and a small carriage to get me to Cockermouth, where my coach awaits. I will pay you for your troubles.”
    The widow scoffed. “Pay me? With what, Duke? It appears your situation has gone from bad to dire.”
    The woman snapped her fingers, connoting the instantaneous nature of misfortune. His family, the families of those miners, the entire parish of Blantyre would be upside down, heaps of dead the likes of which no burgh or township, parish or ducal province had witnessed. Darlington was close to begging.
    “I have taken the liberty of drawing up an agreement,” the widow added, pulling a scroll from the black purse at her waist.
    Darlington’s head was full to exploding. He grabbed the paper cylinder, unrolled it and strode quickly to a writing desk, taking in hand the steel pen and signing in a fury. “You leave me no choice then.”
    He thrust the signed paper at his captor, and then beseeched her once more. “The coach, then?”
    The lady took in a breath and reviewed the agreement. When she was satisfied that the duke had signed off legally, she raised her head, peered over her half-spectacles, and announced, “We have an open rig, available. The phaeton. If the weather holds, which is somewhat possible, you should have no trouble reaching Cockermouth by nightfall. I’ll send for my coachman.”
    Darlington spied the brass bell across the room, and was close to galloping over to ring it himself when the parlor doors opened wide, a servant making way for the duke’s contracted bride.
    Again outfitted in black parmatta and crepe, the young girl bounced into the room. She was concentrating on keeping her hands from clapping, Darlington surmised, because they lurched against her sides as though in apoplectic palsy.
    “Sarah Jane Bloomsbury,” spoke the widow, as calm as you like, “you are now officially betrothed to the Duke of Blantyre Highmeadow.”
    At this the girl let out a scream. A perilous, shrill sound not unlike that of a rabbit being eviscerated by hounds.
    Darlington winced, feeling his back teeth tingle in pain.
    “I will make you such a good wife, Duke,” she squealed, spinning round and round until her mother