Page 4 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“That’s what you’re supposed to do when you marry someone,” Elspeth said. “Best to save that vow for the wedding.”

“Maybe,” Gloriana mourned, “but I didn’t. I can’t go back on a holy vow. I’d be better off dead.”

Elspeth scooped the hot brick into the warming pan and ran it between the sheets. “That’s foolishness, Miss Glow, and well you know it. Get some sleep, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Gloriana doubted it, but she didn’t have the energy to argue. She took a few more sips of milk and gave it back to Elspeth, who set it on the table by the bed.

“Be patient,” the maid said, “and maybe in a few years your handsome marquis will have enough money and be ready to marry you.”

Not likely, since he didn’t love her. She loathed him for rejecting her and for his cowardly departure. As Elspeth tucked her in and closed the curtains around her, she murmured, “Is it possible to love someone and hate them too?”

To which Elspeth replied, “If anyone can do it, you can, Miss Glow.”

~ ~ ~

Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are, Elspeth thought as she went up the stairs to her attic room. It was stuffy at this time of year and frigid in winter, for old Lady Garrison would never allow fuel to be wasted on mere servants.

Gloriana has money and position, a comfortable bed, and a man who loves her! What does it matter if she has to wait a few years?

But I mustn’t complain, Elspeth acknowledged to herself. Gloriana was a far more pleasant mistress than Lady Garrison—a miracle in itself for one so spoiled, and yet so unloved. The old bat probably believed she loved her daughter, but for her it was all about money, position, and pride, and nothing to do with genuine parental love. In any event, one couldn’t expect Gloriana to be aware of all the discomforts of a maidservant’s life. At least she didn’t look down her aristocratic nose and say, “Servants are little better than animals,” or “They’re all dishonest and lazy,” like her mother did. For a well-born lady, Gloriana was surprisingly considerate.

But so childish! Surely, with a little attempt to put herself in the shoes of her marquis, Gloriana would appreciate his entirely proper behavior. What I wouldn’t give for such a man! Not that Elspeth would want a marquis—heaven forbid. No, all she wanted was a hard-working fellow with the money to afford a wife. But the chances of that were slim. She would most likely accompany Gloriana when she married and remain with her for the rest of her life or until she was pensioned off.

This, she reminded herself, was far more than most single women could hope for. Still, one could dream, and dream Elspeth did.

She lit a candle and settled herself in bed. Wasting candles on servants was, of course, forbidden by Lady Garrison, but Elspeth and Gloriana had an arrangement. Elspeth got Gloriana’s half-burned candles in return for concealing the romantic novels also forbidden by Lady Garrison. Which meant Elspeth got to read them all, often before Gloriana did! For some reason, this was balm to Elspeth’s soul.

If only Gloriana would be patient. If only Gloriana would be rational about her vow on that Book of Hours. If only . . . But no, Elspeth wasn’t about to catalogue all the faults and follies of her mistress. She would far rather read a novel.

Gloriana’s marquis, poor man, was much better off without her.

Chapter 2

Five years later, at the estate of Lord Garrison, late summer, 1804

Philippe de Bellechasse lounged against the summerhouse in the cool morning, sipping a cup of unexpectedly good coffee. He’d invited himself to Lord Garrison’s house party to make sure Gloriana Warren didn’t marry the insufferable Earl of Hythwick. It had proven a thankless task, but this purgatory was almost over.

Usually, Philippe respected collectors of antiques for both their knowledge and their care for the lovely old items they owned. Hythwick valued his antiques—all his possessions—for their worth in money and prestige, but nothing more. He was conceited and obsessed with propriety, yet rude to all he deemed his inferiors. He boasted relentlessly about his prowess in the hunt. To sum it up: he was thoroughly unpleasant and boring as well. Gloriana would be miserable with such a man.

Unfortunately, Philippe’s presence had only made Gloriana more stubbornly in favor of the earl. Philippe would happily have abducted Hythwick and tossed him off a cliff if necessary—thereby doing the world a favor—but the situation had resolved itself without his interference. The earl had announced that he couldn’t ally himself with the scandalous Warren family and intended to leave today.

Which left Gloriana disappointed and angry, but evidently determined to butter up the earl until the last possible moment. She had moved her offensive ex-suitor to the Dower House, which she had occupied since her brother’s marriage, to be cared for by her own servants while she remained at Garrison House. Why, for God’s sake? Now that he didn’t intend to marry her, she shouldn’t care what the earl said and did.

Speak of the devil! Gloriana emerged from Garrison House and made her way through the rose garden, looking pensive and lovely from this distance. Her auburn hair escaped the confines of her bonnet, and her figure was graceful and charming in a muslin gown. Her bearing was regal, like the queen she’d been named after. She stopped to sniff the flowers, gazed out upon the lake, and took a deep breath, as if she were pleased with life and the beautiful day.

When she spotted him, her posture changed. Rigid and glowering, she marched across the lawn to the summerhouse. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

Savoring the coffee. Enjoying the summer morning until you came along. “Reliving pleasant memories.” He chuckled.

She blushed a delightful pink, but the flush was one of fury. She raised her hand as if to slap him but seemingly thought better of it, for she lowered her arm and stalked past him into the summerhouse. She grabbed a sketchbook from one of the shelves and marched back out without another word.

And headed toward the Dower House.

“You’re wasting your time,” Philippe said. “He won’t change his mind.”

“He is my guest.” She tossed the words disdainfully over her shoulder. “I owe him certain courtesies.”

Philippe followed. “You owe him nothing.”