Kitabı oku: «The Accidental Princess»
‘Tell me to stop.’
But she didn’t. She had broken so many rules today.
His gaze was heated, his eyes burning with a warning she couldn’t heed. Something about this man drew her in, tantalising her with the promise of physical pleasure.
‘Don’t stop. I need this…’ Hannah didn’t even understand what she was asking for.
‘So innocent.’ His mouth moved over her skin, caressing her with his warm breath. As before, her body came alive, needing him to touch. To taste.
Michael pulled her against him, though he didn’t hold her tight. ‘This is your last chance to run away. I’m not above taking what’s offered.’
‘Show me what it’s supposed to be like,’ she murmured.
The words were all the encouragement he needed, and he covered her breathless mouth with his own. Instinct took over and Hannah kissed him back, ignoring every warning that flew into her mind. She didn’t care. Soon enough, she’d never see him again.
And, by Heaven, if she was going to be ruined after today she might as well have a memory to show for it.
The Accidental Princess
Michelle Willingham
About the Author
MICHELLE WILLINGHAM grew up living in places all over the world, including Germany, England and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antiques shows in manor houses and castles Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance. She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame, with a degree in English, and received her master’s degree in Education from George Mason University. Currently she teaches American History and English. She lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesn’t have her broadsword.
Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com, or e-mail her at michelle@michellewillingham.com
Previous novels by this author:
HER IRISH WARRIOR*
THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH*
HER WARRIOR KING*
HER WARRIOR SLAVE†
THE ACCIDENTAL COUNTESS**
Also available in eBook format inMills & Boon® Historical Undone:
THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE
THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN
AN ACCIDENTAL SEDUCTION**
* The MacEgan Brothers
† prequel to The MacEgan Brothers trilogy
** linked by character
Author Note
I’ve always loved princess stories, ever since I was a little girl. I devoured Grimm’s fairytales and other classics such as A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett and The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain. I wanted to explore the idea of a soldier hero, Michael Thorpe, who looks nearly identical to a crown prince. Throughout the book Michael must question his past and discover whether he was an illegitimate son or the true prince.
Lady Hannah Chesterfield, the daughter of a marquess, is drawn to Lieutenant Thorpe, though she knows she can never wed a soldier. As Michael’s secrets unfold, Hannah is forced into a fascinating world of intrigue and royalty. Ultimately she must decide whether or not to face her greatest fear: surrendering to her hidden desires.
I hope you enjoy THE ACCIDENTAL PRINCESS, and I invite you to try its companion book, THE ACCIDENTAL COUNTESS, about Hannah’s older brother Stephen Chesterfield, the Earl of Whitmore. You can also find behind-the-scenes information about my books on my website: www.michellewillingham.com.
I love to hear from readers, and you may e-mail me at michelle@michellewillingham.com, or write to me at: PO Box 2242 Poquoson, VA 23662, United States.
Warmest wishes.
To Elizabeth, my own special princess.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank the library staff of the Mariner’s Museum in Newport News, Virginia, for their invaluable help in researching the interior of a steamship. In particular, thanks to Library Researcher Bill Edwards-Bodmer, who guided me in choosing the best steamship to use as a model for my own ship. I had a great time poring over old photographs and I was very inspired by the luxurious interiors of these historic vessels.
Chapter One
London, 1855
She could feel his eyes watching her from across the room. Like an invisible protector, warning away anyone who would bother her. Lady Hannah Chesterfield smiled at one of the ballroom guests, but she hadn’t heard a word the woman had said. Instead, she was all too aware of Lieutenant Thorpe’s gaze and the forbidden nature of his thoughts.
Though she’d only met him a few weeks ago, she hadn’t forgotten his intensity. Nor the way he’d stared at her like a delectable sweet he wanted but couldn’t have.
He’d brushed his lips upon the back of her hand when her brother had introduced them. The unexpected kiss had made her skin flush, awakening the strange desire to move closer to him. He looked as though he wanted to kiss every inch of her, and the thought made her body tremble. His interest had been undeniable.
It was nearing midnight, the hour of secret liaisons. More than a few ladies had disappeared into the garden with a companion, only to return with twigs in their hair and swollen lips.
Hannah wondered what it would be like to indulge in such wickedness, feeling a man’s mouth against her lips, his hands touching her the way a lover would. There was something about the Lieutenant that was dangerous. Unpredictable. He didn’t belong here among London’s elite, and yet he fascinated her.
She risked a glance and saw him leaning against the back wall, a glass of lemonade in one hand. His black tailcoat was too snug across his broad shoulders, as though he couldn’t afford one that fit. His matching waistcoat accentuated his lean form, while the white cravat he wore had a careless tilt to it. His dark hair was too long, and he was clean-shaven, unlike the current fashion.
His mouth gave a slight lift, as though daring her to come and speak to him. She couldn’t possibly do such a thing.
Why was he here tonight? It wasn’t as if Lieutenant Thorpe could seek a wife from among the ladies. He might be an officer, but he did not possess a title. Furthermore, if it weren’t for his unlikely friendship with her brother Stephen, the Lieutenant wouldn’t have been allowed inside Rothburne House.
‘Hannah!’ A hand waved in front of her face, and she forced herself to pay heed to her mother, who had crossed the room to speak with her.
‘You’re woolgathering again, my dear. Stand up straight and smile. The Baron of Belgrave is coming to claim his dance with you.’ With a slight titter, Christine Chesterfield added, ‘Oh, I do hope the two of you get on. He would make such a dashing husband for you. He’s so handsome and well-mannered.’
An unsettled feeling rose up in her stomach. ‘Mother, I don’t want to wed the baron.’
‘Why? Whatever is wrong with Lord Belgrave?’ Christine demanded.
‘I don’t know. Something. It feels wrong.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Her mother rolled her eyes. ‘Hannah, you’re imagining things. There is absolutely nothing wrong with the baron, and I have little doubt that he would make an excellent husband.’
A sour feeling caught up in her stomach, but Hannah didn’t protest. She’d learned, long ago, that her mother and father had carved-in-stone ideas about the man she would marry. The gentleman had to be well-bred, wealthy and titled. A saint who had never transgressed against anyone, who treated women with the utmost respect.
And likely rescued kittens in his spare time, she thought sourly. Men of that nature didn’t exist. She knew it for a fact, being cursed with two older brothers.
Though she wanted to get married more than anything, Hannah was beginning to wonder if she’d ever find the right man. Having her own home and a husband was her dream, for she could finally have the freedom she wanted.
She craved the moment when she could make her own choices without having to ask permission or worry about whether or not she was behaving like a proper lady. Although she was twenty years old, she might as well have been a girl of five, for all that she’d been sheltered from the world.
‘Now, Hannah,’ her mother chided. ‘The baron has been nothing but the soul of kindness this entire week. He’s brought you flowers every day.’
It was true that Lord Belgrave had made his courtship intentions clear. But despite his outward courtesy, Hannah couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He was almost too perfect.
‘I’m not feeling up to a dance just now,’ she said, though she knew the excuse would never hold.
‘You are perfectly well,’ her mother insisted. ‘And you cannot turn down an invitation to dance. It would be rude.’
Hannah clamped her lips together, suppressing the urge to argue. Her mother would never bend when it came to appropriate behaviour. With any luck, the dance would be over in three minutes.
‘Smile, for the love of heaven,’ her mother repeated. ‘You look as though you’re about to faint.’
Without waiting for her reply, Lady Rothburne flounced away, just as the Baron of Belgrave arrived to claim his dance.
Hannah forced a smile upon her face and prayed that the remaining hours would pass quickly. And as the baron swept her into the next dance, she caught a glimpse of the Lieutenant watching them, an unreadable darkness upon his face.
Michael Thorpe had a sixth sense for trouble. He often perceived it before it struck, which had served him well on the battlefield.
It was happening again. Intuition pricked at his conscience, when he saw Lady Hannah about to dance with the Baron of Belgrave. Whether she knew it or not, the suitors were circling her like sharks. There wasn’t a man among them who didn’t want to claim her.
Including himself.
She was an untouched angel. Innocent of the world, and yet he recognised the weariness in her green eyes. Her caramel-brown hair had been artfully arranged with sprigs of jasmine, while her gown was purest white. It irritated him that her parents treated her as a marital offering to be served out to debauched males.
Like the dog that he was, he wanted to snarl at her suitors, warning them to stay the hell away. But what good would come of it, except to embarrass her among her family and friends?
No. Better to remain in the shadows and keep watch over her. He’d seen so much death and war in the past few months, he felt the need to protect something fragile and good. Soon enough, he’d have to go back to the Crimean Peninsula. He’d have to face the demons and ghosts he’d left behind, and, more than likely, a bullet would end his life.
For now, he would savour this last taste of freedom before the Army ordered him back to the battleground. He glared at Belgrave, watching the pair of them on the dance floor. For a brief moment he imagined himself holding a woman like Hannah in his arms.
His good friend, the Earl of Whitmore, approached with an intent glare upon his face. A moment later, Whitmore’s younger brother, Lord Quentin Chesterfield, joined them.
‘I hope, for your sake, Thorpe, that you weren’t eyeing my sister.’ The Earl spoke the words in a calm, deliberate fashion. ‘Otherwise, I’ll have to kill you.’
Lord Quentin leaned in, a mischievous smile on his face. ‘I’ll help.’
Michael ignored their threats, though he didn’t doubt that they meant them. ‘Your sister shouldn’t be dancing with Belgrave. I don’t trust him.’
‘He might be a baron, but he looks a bit too polished, doesn’t he?’ Lord Quentin agreed. ‘Like he’s trying too hard to impress the women.’
‘You could try a bit harder with your own attire.’ Whitmore grimaced at his younger brother’s dark purple jacket and yellow waistcoat.
‘I like colourful clothing.’ Lord Quentin shrugged and turned his attention back to the dancing couple. ‘I suppose we shouldn’t worry. Our father isn’t going to allow Hannah to wed a man like Belgrave, even if he does propose.’
Glancing at the ceiling as if calculating a vast number, Lord Quentin thought to himself. ‘Now how many proposals does that make for her this Season…seventeen? Or was it twenty-seven?’
‘Five,’ Whitmore replied. ‘Thankfully, from no one appropriate. But I’ll agree with you that Belgrave wouldn’t be my first choice.’ Crossing his arms, the Earl added, ‘I’ll be glad when she finds a husband. One less matter to worry about.’
From the tension in Whitmore’s face, Michael suspected that impending fatherhood was his greater fear. ‘How is the Countess?’ he asked.
‘One more month of confinement, and then, pray God, we’ll have this child. Emily begged me to take her to Falkirk for the birth. We’re leaving at dawn. Still, I’m not certain I want her to travel in her condition. Our last baby arrived weeks earlier than we’d expected.’
‘Emily is approaching the size of a small carriage,’ Lord Quentin interjected.
Whitmore sent his brother a blistering look, and Michael offered, ‘I’ll hold him down while you break his nose.’
A smile cracked over the Earl’s face. ‘Excellent idea, Thorpe.’
Changing the subject, Michael studied Lady Hannah once more. ‘Do you think the Marquess will choose a husband for her this Season?’
‘It’s doubtful,’ Whitmore replied. ‘Hannah might as well have a note upon her forehead, telling the unmarried gentleman: “Don’t Even Bother Asking.”’
‘Or, “The Marquess Will Kill You If You Ogle His Daughter”,’ Quentin added.
The brothers continued to joke about their sister, but Michael ignored their banter. Beneath it all, he understood their fierce desire to protect her. In that, they held common ground.
But regardless of what he might desire, he knew the truth. A Marquess’s daughter could never be with a soldier.
No matter how badly he might want her.
‘Lady Hannah, you are truly the loveliest woman in this room.’ Robert Mortmain, the Baron of Belgrave, led her in the steps of the polka, his smile broad.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured without looking at him.
She couldn’t deny that Lord Belgrave was indeed charming and handsome, with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Born into wealth, nearly every unmarried woman had cast her snare for him—all except herself. There was something about him, a haughtiness that made Hannah uncomfortable.
Don’t worry about it, she told herself. Papa isn’t going to force you to marry him, so there’s no need to be rude. The problem of Lord Belgrave would solve itself.
Hannah’s skin crawled when the baron touched the small of her back, even with gloved hands. As they moved across the floor, she tensed. The smug air upon his face was of a man boasting to his friends. He didn’t want to be with her; he wanted to show her off. A subtle ache began to swell through her temples.
Just a few minutes more, and the dance will be over, Hannah consoled herself. Then she could escape to the comfort of her room. It was nearly midnight, and though she was expected to remain until after two o’clock, she might be able to convince her father that she didn’t feel well.
Lord Belgrave scowled when they danced past the refreshment table. ‘I didn’t realise he would be here tonight.’
He was speaking of Lieutenant Thorpe, who was now openly staring at them. Displeasure lined the Lieutenant’s face and he gripped the lemonade glass as though he intended to hurl it towards the Baron.
‘Why did your father invite him, I wonder?’ Lord Belgrave asked.
‘Lieutenant Thorpe saved my brother Stephen’s life a few years ago,’ she admitted. ‘They are friends.’
Though how Stephen had even encountered such a man, she’d never understand. Despite his military rank, Thorpe was a commoner—not the second son of a viscount or earl, as was customary for officers in the Army. And were it not for her brother’s insistence, she knew the Lieutenant would never have been invited.
There was nothing humble or uncertain about the way he was watching them. Anger ridged his features, and though the Lieutenant kept himself in control, he looked like he wanted to drag her away from Belgrave.
‘He’s trying to better himself, isn’t he?’ Belgrave remarked. ‘A man of his poor breeding only poisons his surroundings.’
From his intensity and defensive stance, the Lieutenant appeared as though he were still standing on a battlefield. Likely he’d be more comfortable holding a gun instead of a glass of lemonade.
‘I don’t want you near a man like him.’ The baron scowled.
Lord Belgrave’s possessive tone didn’t sit well with her, but Hannah said nothing. It wasn’t as if she intended to go anywhere near the Lieutenant. Even so, what right did Belgrave have to dictate her actions?
None whatsoever. The dance was nearly finished, and she was grateful for that. Her headache was growing worse, and she longed for an escape to her room. When the music ended, she thanked Lord Belgrave, but he held her hands a moment longer.
‘Lady Hannah, I would be honoured if you’d consent to becoming my wife.’
She couldn’t believe he’d asked it of her. Here? In the middle of a ballroom? Hannah’s smile grew strained, but she simply answered, ‘You’ll have to speak with my father.’
No. No. A thousand times, no.
The baron’s fingers tightened when she tried to pull away. ‘But what of your wishes? If you did not require the Marquess’s permission, what would you say?’
I would say absolutely not.
Hannah kept her face completely neutral. She didn’t like the look in his eyes. There was a desperate glint in them, and she wondered if Belgrave’s fortunes were as secure as he’d claimed. Forcing a laugh she didn’t feel, Hannah managed, ‘You flatter me, my lord. Any woman would be glad to call you her husband.’
Just not me. But then, a word to her father would take care of that. Although the Marquess presented an autocratic façade to his peers, he was softer towards her, probably because she’d never embarrassed him in public, or even hinted at rebellion. Obedient and demure, she’d made him proud.
Or at least, that’s what she hoped.
Hannah managed to pry her hand free. Even so, she could feel the baron’s eyes boring into the back of her gown. She walked towards her father and brothers, who were standing near the entrance to the terrace. From the serious expressions on their faces, she didn’t want to interrupt the conversation. She took a glass of lemonade and waited outside the ballroom, in the darkened shadows near the terrace. It wasn’t good to be standing alone, but she hoped she was near enough to her brothers that no one would bother her.
Everyone else was still inside, dancing and mingling with one another. Her head was aching even more, a dreadful pressure that seemed to spread.
Oh, please, not tonight, Hannah prayed. She’d suffered headaches such as these before, and they were wretched, attacking her until she was bedridden for a full day or longer.
‘You don’t look well,’ came a male voice from behind her.
Without turning around, she knew it was Lieutenant Thorpe. His voice lacked the cultured tones of the upper class, making his identity obvious. Hannah contemplated ignoring him and approaching her father, but then that would be rude. And whether or not she wanted to speak to him, good manners were ingrained within her.
‘I am fine, Lieutenant Thorpe. Thank you for asking.’
Despite her unspoken dismissal, he didn’t move away. She could feel him watching her, and, beneath his attention, her body began to respond. It felt too hot, even outside on the terrace. The silk of her dress felt confining. She fanned herself, not knowing why his very presence seemed to unnerve her so.
She didn’t turn around, for it wasn’t proper for her to be speaking with him alone. Even if he was completely hidden behind her, she didn’t want to take a chance of someone seeing them. ‘Was there something you wanted?’
He gave a low laugh, a husky sound that was far too intimate. ‘Nothing you can give, sweet.’
Her face flushed scarlet, not knowing what he’d meant by that. She took a hesitant step closer to her father, sensing the Lieutenant’s presence like a warm breeze upon her nape. Her gown rested off her shoulders, baring her skin before him. The strand of diamonds she wore grew heavy, and she forgot about her aching head. Instead, she was intensely conscious of the man standing behind her.
‘You look tired.’
It was so true. She was tired of attending balls and dinner parties. Tired of being paraded around like a porcelain doll, waiting for the right marriage offer.
‘I’m all right,’ she insisted. ‘You needn’t worry about me.’ She wanted him to leave her alone. He shouldn’t be standing behind her, not where anyone could come upon them. She was about to step away when a gloved hand touched her back. The heat of his palm warmed her skin, and she jerked away out of instinct.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she pleaded.
‘Is that what you want?’
Her shoulders rose and fell, her breathing unsteady. Of course that’s what she wanted. A man like Michael Thorpe was nothing but trouble.
But before she could say another word, his hand moved to her shoulders. Caressing the skin, gently easing the tension in her nape.
Step away from him. Scream, her brain insisted. But it was as though her mouth were stuffed with cotton. Her limbs were frozen in place, unable to move.
Her breasts prickled beneath the ivory silk, becoming aroused. He’d removed a single glove, and the vibrant intimacy of his bare palm on her flesh made her tremble.
‘Don’t do this,’ she pleaded. Her voice was a slight whisper, barely audible. ‘You—you shouldn’t.’
Well-mannered ladies did not stand still while they were accosted by a soldier. She could only imagine what her mother would say. But she had never been touched by a man like this, and the sensation was a secret thrill.
The Lieutenant’s fingers slipped beneath the chain of her necklace, teasing her neck before winding into the strands of her coiffeur. ‘You’re right.’
His fingers were melting her resistance, making her feel alive. She was beginning to understand how a woman might cast off propriety, surrendering to a stranger’s seduction.
‘My apologies. You were too much temptation to resist.’
Her fingers clenched at her sides. ‘Sir, keep your hands to yourself. Or you’ll answer to my brother.’
‘I’ll try.’
Then she felt the lightest brush of his mouth upon her nape, a kiss he shouldn’t have stolen. Wicked heat poured through her, and she gasped at the sensation.
Hannah whirled around, prepared to chastise him. But he’d already gone. She stared out at the gardens, but there was not a trace that he’d been there. Only the gooseflesh on her arms and the storm of churning fire inside her skin.
‘Why are you out here alone, Hannah?’ The Marquess of Rothburne approached, having finished his conversation with her brothers. Her father frowned at her, as though she’d transgressed by avoiding a chaperone.
She prayed he didn’t see her flushed cheeks or suspect the improper thoughts racing through her head. ‘I would like permission to retire,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s been a long evening. My head hurts, and I need to lie down.’
‘Do you want me to send your maid with laudanum?’ he asked, becoming concerned.
Hannah shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think it’s going to be one of those headaches. But if you please, Papa, I’m very tired.’
Her father offered his arm. ‘Walk with me for a few minutes, if you will.’
Hannah was hesitant, but she suspected her father had something else to discuss with her. He led her outside the terrace and down the gravel walkway toward her mother’s rose garden. The canes held hints of new growth, though it would be early summer before the first blooms came. She raised her eyes to look out at the glittering stars, wishing she had brought a shawl.
Her skin was still sensitive from the Lieutenant’s touch, her mind in turmoil. He’d awakened a restless side to her, and she didn’t like it. Even while she walked, the shifting of her legs sent an uneasy ache within her body.
What had he done to her? And did that make her a wanton, for enjoying his fleeting touch?
Her father led her through the gardens toward the stables, their feet crunching upon the gravel as they walked. Hannah found herself comparing the two men. James Chesterfield was every inch a Marquess, displaying a haughty exterior that intimidated almost everyone except herself. Never did he stray from the rules of propriety. In contrast, Lieutenant Thorpe had a devil-may-care attitude, a man who did exactly as he pleased.
She shivered at the memory.
When her father’s silence stretched on, Hannah guessed at the reason. ‘You turned another proposal down, didn’t you?’
James paused. ‘Not yet. But the Baron of Belgrave asked for permission to call upon me tomorrow.’
It wasn’t a surprise, but she felt it best to make her feelings known. ‘I don’t want to marry him, Papa.’
‘He possesses a large estate, and comes from an excellent family,’ her father argued. ‘He seems to have a genuine interest in you.’ He escorted her back to the house.
‘Something about him bothers me.’ Hannah paused, trying to find the right words. ‘I can’t quite explain it.’
‘That isn’t a good enough reason to reject his suit,’ the Marquess protested.
She knew that, but was counting on her father to take her side. To change the subject, she asked, ‘What sort of man are you hoping I’ll wed? I do want to get married.’
The Marquess cleared his throat. ‘I’ll know him when I see him. Someone who will take care of you and make you happy.’ He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, though he didn’t smile. Streaks of grey marred his bearded face, his hair silvery in the moonlight.
He led her back to the house, where they passed the ballroom filled with people. Music crescendoed amidst the laughter of guests, but it only made her headache worsen. Finally, her father escorted her to her room, bidding her good night.
At the door he added gruffly, ‘Lady Whitmore brought over some ginger biscuits earlier this afternoon, when she visited. I had a servant place some in your room. Don’t tell your mother.’ Shaking his head in exasperation, he added, ‘You would think that a woman in her condition would know better than to work like a scullery maid. It’s ridiculous that she wants to bake treats, like a common servant.’
While most women rested in their final month of pregnancy, her sister-in-law Emily had gone into a flurry of baking during the past several weeks. Stephen humoured his wife, allowing her to do as she wished during her confinement.
Acting upon her father’s unspoken hint, Hannah slipped inside her room for a moment and returned with two of the ginger biscuits. She handed them to her father, who devoured them.
‘If I see Emily, I’ll tell her how much you liked them,’ she said.
He grimaced. ‘She shouldn’t be in the kitchens. Her ankles are swelling, so she said. If you see her, order her to put her feet up.’
‘I will,’ Hannah promised. Though he would never admit it, the Marquess thoroughly enjoyed his arguments with Stephen’s wife.
After her father left, Hannah rang for her maid. She sat down at her dressing table, wondering if she would need the laudanum after all. Her headache hadn’t abated and seemed to be worsening.
She massaged her temples in an attempt to block out the pain. It frustrated her, being unable to control this aspect of her life.
Then again, so much of her life was out of her hands. She should be accustomed to it by now. Her mother made every decision concerning her wardrobe and which balls and dinner parties she attended. Christine controlled what she ate, which calls she made…even when she was allowed to retire for the night.
Hannah ran her hands over a silver hairbrush, praying for the day when she could make those decisions for herself. Though she supposed it was her mother’s way of showing she cared about her welfare, as time went on, her home felt more and more like a prison.
Her gaze fell upon the list of reminders her mother had left behind. She’d received one every day since the age of nine, since, quite often, she didn’t see her mother until the evening.
1 Wear the white silk gown and the Rothburne diamonds.
2 Wait for your father and brothers to introduce suitors to you.
3 Do not refuse any invitation to dance.
4 Never argue with any gentleman. A true lady is agreeable.
Hannah could almost imagine instruction number five: Never allow strange gentlemen to touch you. Her eyes closed, her head pounding with pain.
Folding the list away, she rested her forehead upon her palm. A slow ache built up in her stomach when she saw a morning dress the colour of butter laid out for tomorrow. She had never cared for the gown, and would have been quite happy to see it burned. It made her feel as though she were six years old.
But she would never dream of arguing with Christine Chesterfield. Her mother alternated the colours of her dresses, selecting gowns of white, rose and yellow. When Hannah had tried to suggest another colour once, Christine had put her foot down. It wouldn’t surprise her if her mother measured each and every one of her necklines, to be sure that she wasn’t revealing too much skin.
Just once, Hannah wished to have a scarlet dress. Or amethyst. A wild burst of colour to liven up her wardrobe. But she supposed real ladies weren’t supposed to wear colours like that.
Hannah raised the hem of her gown, and at the glimpse of her petticoats, she thought of the man who would one day become her husband. Would he treat her with tenderness, bringing friendship and possibly love into their marriage?
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