Page 7 of Rogue’s Holiday

Chapter 3

Dudley Hall, Northampton

Chastity settled into one of the two winged chairs in the corner of her bedchamber and reached for her tea on the round table between her and Rose. The sunlight pouring in from the paned glass windows cast a glow about Rose’s beautiful ebony hair. Chastity tried not to feel envious.

A glance out the windows reminded her that daffodils and crocuses were already blooming in wild profusion. At her feet, Crispin sat licking his black velvet paws.

Idly twisting one of her curls around her finger, Chastity sipped her tea and turned her thoughts to the shoes she would take to Brighton. “The brocade slippers with the green ribbon ties, I think, and the crimson ones to go with my new gown. Too, I must take the green half boots, and—”

Across the table, Rose choked on her tea and whisked her serviette across her mouth. Exasperation filled her gaze. “Really, Chas, what matters our shoes if we are to see Brighton?” In the quizzical way Rose had of wrinkling her perfectly arched dark brows, she asked, “You are certain we are to go?”

“Did I not say so?” Chastity allowed herself a smug smile. “I have been flirting overmuch with my dance instructor of late, which has had the desired effect. Mother is hurrying the preparations to see me gone, and you with me.”

Rose leaned back in her chair, smiling. “You are a devious one. But you’ll hear no complaint from me. I was ever so grateful when my parents thought a visit to your great-aunt a splendid idea. Country parties and dances are all well and good but the Brighton Season is another matter altogether, one they were eager to see me attend now that I am of marriageable age.”

“Do you seek a husband?”

Rose’s brows rose. “Of course, don’t you?”

Chastity pursed her lips and shook her head. “No. At least not now.” She considered the possibility. “Maybe never.”

“Truly?”

“As you are aware, I have no need to wed.” Although her tone was decisive as always when the topic arose, Chastity’s inner thoughts about marriage were less certain. What she really wanted was what every woman dreamed of: the love of a good man, one to whom she could give her heart. Yet she had no high hope for that. Relegated to the shadows of her sisters’ beauty and given her outspoken nature, she believed a lasting love was a dream so elusive as to be nonexistent.

“What about your suitors? William Saunders—”

“Pfft! He’s merely a childhood friend. Worse, he has grown into a man of awkward manners and foppish ways.”

“But he will inherit his father’s wealth—”

“I do not desire his wealth.” Chastity shot a swift glance at her friend. “And do not, I beg of you, even mention the name of ‘he who dangles after me like a lost puppy’. I swear he only seeks my company to be near my younger sister.”

Rose’s lips twitched. “Very well. If I may not mention Michael Townsend, what of the vicar’s son? He is very nice to look at—”

“And desirous of following in his father’s footsteps. Truly, Rose. You cannot possibly see me married to a vicar.”

Rose chuckled. “Well, no, now that you mention it. Nor could I see myself doing so.” She took a drink of her tea and set down her cup. “Perhaps if I don’t marry, we could be spinsters together.”

Chastity smiled. “Oh, you will marry, I’ve no doubt.” For a moment she considered the man to whom she would match her dearest friend. Someone worthy. “I’ve an idea.”

“Oh, dear! You have that look in your eye. What are you thinking?”

“What if I were to help you find a worthy husband? A man who would treasure you?”

“I suppose…”

“Leave it to me,” she said, warming to the idea. “Once we are in Brighton, I shall devote myself to finding you a suitable match. Not a country bumpkin or a man consumed with his own merit. No, he must be a gentleman of the best sort, a man of letters with a generous heart and wealth enough you need never worry about the future. What say you?” Chastity was always up for a challenge and to be the instrument of Rose’s happiness made the effort one she looked forward to.

“Would we still enjoy ourselves in Brighton?”

“Oh, yes! Aunt Agatha will see to it, I’ve no doubt.” While she had suggested to her mother that Aunt Agatha knew nothing of young women’s fancies, her most vivid memories of her great-aunt were of a warm, deeply affectionate woman, who delighted in making merry.

Crispin chose that moment to leap into her lap, part of his large black form spilling onto the chair seat. Her teacup wobbled in its saucer. She placed it on the table and scratched the cat behind his ears. His golden eyes closed as he began to purr. The deep rhythmic sound filled the bedchamber.

“I have never been to Brighton,” Rose said wistfully. “What a time we will have!”

Chastity ran her hand over Crispin’s soft fur, glistening in a ray of sunlight. “You will like Aunt Agatha. She is a dear. More to the point, if she remains as she was before the earl died, she is a great deal of fun. Mother has no idea, thank God.”