Tight Laced Read Online Free PDF Page B

grabbed her upper arm.
    “You can start by wishing your fiancé well. He has a difficult journey ahead of him.”
    “Indeed!” shouted the girl. Then, as if a child awaiting Father Christmas, she grinned, employing every muscle in her cheeks. “And when will this wedding take place?”
    Darlington struggled to speak, so struck – appalled, really – at the degree of forthrightness and flat out disregard for manners. Here these two had just buried the beloved head of the house, and were behaving as if they’d skipped the mourning altogether.
    And in the face of the tragedy of which he’d just gotten word, this was most improper, this nuptial scheming. At last, he drew his wits about him and spoke. “Certainly not before your proper time of mourning concludes.”
    The countess glanced at the shrouded mirrors, as if just now reminded of her recent widowhood. “We will plan a spring wedding. This coming April, I think. We’ll figure out a way around the clothing.”
    Darlington felt as if struck by a club. All of society frowned on resuming social activities before the official year of mourning. In many cases, the family members wore black for a year-and-a-half. And with this disaster at Blantyre, why, it would be blasphemous to celebrate in the face of the devastation. Though he didn’t know for certain, he guessed that many families of his acquaintance had lost men in yesterday’s explosion.
    “If you’ll excuse me, Your Ladyships, I really must be off. Would you send for your coachman?”
    Lady Bloomsbury rang the bell, and Darlington forced himself to smile at the young lady who was to become the next Duchess of Blantyre Highmeadow, though every centimeter of him recoiled.
    Kent, the valet, came at once. The family’s regular coachman was abed with a bad back, and that left his son, Roland, who was barely tall enough to see over the horse’s ears. “Not advisable, your Ladyship,” he said. “There’s foul weather in the air, and young Roland is quite inexperienced with the ruts on the road north.”
    “Nonsense,” spat the widow. “Have him prepare the phaeton at once. We cannot keep my future son-in-law waiting.”
    Kent bowed. “As you wish, m’lady.”
    The widow then turned to her daughter. “Offer your hand, you little fool. You really have a lot to learn.”
    “My hand?” said Sarah Jane stretching her fingers out in the air in front of her face.
    The countess turned to Darlington, her brow low and her eyes narrowed. “Naturally, we would skip presentation at court for this one. And I trust that you will be discreet down the road? With your ducal comings and goings?”
    The widow twisted the girl’s arm, and pulled her toward her fiancé, offering the duke the back of her hand. Darlington took it, and deposited a dry peck on the knuckles.

    Lacilia only meant to return the duke’s handkerchief – she’d washed it and hung it to dry overnight – but when she entered the parlor, she found it empty. Perhaps he’d already left?
    She heard the chattery voices of her stepmother and sister in the hall. They seemed animated, as if planning a dinner party. There was lilt and laughter. Lacilia wished to avoid them both at all costs. It galled her to imagine that they’d continued with the nuptial blackmail under the devastating circumstances.
    Lacy peered out the parlor window, and viewed the grounds. There, on the path between the stable and the main house, she watched the coachman’s son – a groom who meant well, but was a fair horseman at best – attempting to harness the horses to a small cart. Wind had picked up, and a loose branch hit the grass near one of the horses, and it spooked, causing the harness to twist and the small carriage to lurch to the side.
    “Oh dear,” Lacy muttered. The duke himself was attempting to intervene, but the groom – Rodney? No, no, it was Roland – pushed him back, too proud to accept help from anyone, much less a man of such high social