The Wagered Widow Read Online Free Page B

Peter! Oh, but this is going to be frightful, I can feel it in my bones! What do you mean to do to the poor man?”
    Rebecca twinkled at her. “Well, that,” she admitted, “is one of the details I’ve not quite worked out as yet. But I shall catch him, never you fear! Papa once told me that if a person wants something badly enough, no matter how difficult it may seem, it can be done.” She held out her skirts and danced around the room. “Lady Peter Ward.… Oh, Aunt! Does it not sound delicious?”
    Mrs. Boothe uttered a heartfelt wail and reached for her vinaigrette.

CHAPTER
2
    Rebecca sat at her dressing table, leaning forward, the small round patch balanced on her slender forefinger, her hand wavering as she critically considered her features. With a decisive swoop, she placed the patch slightly below and to the right of her tender mouth. “There!” she said with a pleased air.
    â€œOh!” gasped her aunt, shocked. “The Kissing? ” Her niece responding with nothing more than a bright nod, Albinia shook her head and retired to perch on the bed. She already wore her ball gown, a charming creation of dark blue sarsenet embroidered in lighter blue, with the bodice and train also of the lighter colour. Her wig was tall and decorated with clusters of violets, and she looked rather astonishingly youthful. Her eyes, however, were apprehensive, and the mirror informing her of this, Rebecca stood and asked archly, “What is the matter, dear? Do I not look well?”
    â€œYou look very well, my love. Save for that naughty patch! And you are causing my poor heart to flutter most distressfully, for I dread to think what you may have plotted against that poor—”
    The door swung open to the accompaniment of a hurried scratching, and six-year-old Anthony raced in. “Mama! Mama!” he cried, “I had the most—” And he stopped, his green eyes widening so that they looked enormous in his pale face. “Oooh…!” he breathed, and went over to touch the white silken gown with one fine-boned hand. “Are the pink flowers stuck on?”
    Rebecca laughed, and bent to kiss his cheek. “No, my darling, they are part of the material.” She pirouetted for him. “Do you approve of your mama?”
    His awed eyes answered for him, but he whispered, “You are very pretty, ma’am. I never saw you look … like that.”
    â€œWell, you see, love, I no longer have to wear only black, or dark colours.” Hands on waist, Rebecca surveyed her reflection. The Watteau gown really was elegant. It had been dreadfully dear, but, following Snowden’s oft-repeated instructions on How to Proceed When Under the Hatches, she had ordered four new dresses from Madame Olga and ignored the frightening balance of the bills already stuffed into the bottom drawer of her desk. Madame’s smile had been a little strained, but she had said nothing, and Aunt Albinia had attributed this to the advertising that so lovely a patron would achieve. Nonetheless, Rebecca’s heart had been thundering with nervousness when they had left the modiste’s discreet shop, and she wondered now if ever she would be able to pay the half of what she owed. “I suppose I should not have bought it,” she sighed.
    â€œOf course you should,” said her aunt loyally. “It might have been fashioned for you; how could you resist it after all this time in blacks?”
    Rebecca threw her a grateful smile. “I own I love the pleated train and the flattened paniers. But do you know, they say that in France they are starting to turn away from the back pleats?”
    â€œAnd I suppose the next to go will be the stomacher! The French will stop at nothing! Never have! But, as to those ruffles at the neckline, dearest, très chic, but—” She glanced to the child’s worshipful face. “A little—ah, décolleté,