“A gown is a gown, my lady.”
Clara winced from a prick of guilt. “Of course it is. If you want the gown and can clean it, you are welcome to it.” She arched her shoulders as the stays came free. “Do my gowns fit you?”
Radcliff disappeared into Clara’s dressing room and returned with a night rail made of light blue cotton. “With a bit of tucking and a border at the bottom. And they give me practice on making repairs and removing unexpected stains.”
Clara laughed. “The gift of working for a lady whose grace in satin slippers is somewhat lacking.”
Radcliff’s cheeks pinked. “I meant no disrespect, my lady.”
“None taken. Although I suspect my acquisition of new gowns and new stains is about to become severely limited.”
Radcliff helped slip the night rail over Clara’s head. Clara reached for the satin ribbon at the neck then settled on the stool in front of her dressing table. Radcliff began the process of unweaving the intricate braids circling Clara’s head. “How so, my lady?”
The process of taking down the hairstyle was as painful as it had been going up, and Clara grimaced as a pin scraped her scalp. “I had a bit of a row with my mother tonight. Taken with what happened with the lemonade, I suspect my days of attending balls will become limited.”
“But what about your need for a hus—” Radcliff broke off. “My apologies. Not my place, my lady.”
Clara observed the young maid in the mirror. Yes, she was outspoken and scolding, but she had learned a great deal about being a lady’s maid in the past few months, and Clara was, after all, a bit to blame for not reining in her words. “I suspect, Radcliff, that horse is quite out of the barn where you and I are concerned. Iwouldask you try to curtail your outspoken nature when we are in public.”
“Of course, my lady.”
“As to the other matter, my mother and father will pick someone for me to marry, and if the gentleman agrees, my father will make the contract arrangements.”
“You will have no choice in the matter?”
“I am afraid that my having any choice in this was an illusion at best. Even if I found a gentleman to my liking, my father would still have the final say. Ladies of thetonare not free to marry whomever they choose. It is not the way things are done.”
“’Tis a pity then, that such a handsome gent is interested, if he is not on the list.”
Clara stilled, watching Radcliff in the mirror. “Whatever do you mean?”
The young maid shrugged a shoulder as she extracted another ribbon and began to unwind another braid. “Lord Michael’s questions about you over the past two days have been rather enthusiastic.”
Michael Ashton’s dark and handsome face flitted through Clara’s mind. His abrupt interest in her had been both confusing and startling, but the memory of his strength, and his virtual assault on Richard Hadleyton, left her feeling... warm. In the mirror, her cheeks brightened with red blotches, and Radcliff smiled as she reached for a hairbrush.
And an idea blossomed in Clara’s mind. She cleared her throat. “Radcliff, when you’re ready to go to Ashton House to pick up my dress, please let me know. I will have a note to send with you.”
Radcliff’s grin broadened as she ran the hairbrush through the long, wild curls at the back of Clara’s head. “Of course, my lady.”
Chapter Five
Thursday, 4 August 1825
Ashton House, London
Quarter-past nine in the morning
Breakfast had beena haphazard affair since his mother’s collapse, so Michael expected to be dining alone at this hour. No one in the Kennet clan—apart from his new sister-in-law Rose—emerged from beneath the covers early even on the best of days. Now, in the weeks following his mother’s illness, the family tended to wander about in a chaotic miasma that would make Emalyn Ashton insane once she regained her faculties and control of the house.
Michael desperately wanted that to happen, and not only because he wanted his mother well again. Despite how he had chaffed under her rules and strict schedule when he had first returned in April, he had come to depend on it, especially during his struggle to break free of the alcohol that had consumed him for so long. A regular routine helped. Yet, to be honest, Michael also relished the relative quiet of the recent mornings. Even without Emalyn’s structure, Ashton House tended to operate in what Beth called “a high bustle.” With twenty bedchambers and a staff of thirty-five, constant movement was relatively normal. Most of the upper servants moved back and forth between Ashton House and the family seat of Ashton Park if the entire family changed residences, but Ashton Park also had its own resident staff of fifty to keep it running. How his parents kept control of it all was beyond him, and Michael was beginning to understand the duress Thomas and Rose were under, now that they had stepped up to help.
Yet another reason he normally appreciated being the third son. No one relied on him for anything. Of course, this was also why he was often the invisible son as well.
Michael examined the chafing dishes on the sideboard to find a goodly stock of fried gammon, eggs, and kedgeree, as well as cold dishes with jams, pastries, fruit, and toast. He spooned up a bit of all of it as a footman poured coffee. He settled and began to feast when a rather coarse voice sounded from the door.
“You look as if you are preparing for a day of hard labor.”
Michael glanced up at his brother Robert and hid a grimace behind a sip of coffee, although apparently not very well.
