Page 31 of Heiress Gone Wild

“She and her friends are still having tea and enjoying a healthy dose of scandalmongering along with it. You should hear the way they gossip about people—the odious conclusions they draw and the rumors they spread, and all of it without a shred of evidence that I can see. Horrid cats.”

“Gossip is a favorite pastime of the typical British matron, so you’d best get used to it, if you want to be in British society. And if they’re having tea, then why aren’t you with them? You certainly shouldn’t be here,” he felt compelled to add, though as he studied her in that dress, he was uncertain if that reminder was for her, or for him. “Where does the countess think you are?”

She stopped pacing. “Oh,” she groaned, swaying on her feet, pressing one hand to her forehead while she reached out with the other to grasp the back of the wingback chair beside her. “I’ve such a headache,” she mumbled. “I must go lie down.”

Alarmed, he started toward her, then realized he’d just been made for a mug and stopped again.

“Were you this accomplished a liar at Forsyte Academy?” he asked as she abandoned the pretense of a headache and resumed pacing. “Or has the baroness been giving you acting lessons?”

“She’s in no condition to do that, or much else, either. She’s seasick, as you already know.”

“Yes, I did hear something about that,” he acknowledged, trying not to laugh. “Poor woman.”

Despite his best efforts to sound nonchalant, some of his amused satisfaction must have shown on his face, for when she glanced his way, she stopped again, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What did you do?” she demanded. “Pay the waiter to put an emetic in her dinner last night?”

Caught, he made the best of it and smiled. “I didn’t pay the waiter to do anything.”

She understood his clarification at once. “You paid the baroness to pretend seasickness? You did,” she added as his smile widened. “Of all the devious, highhanded—”

She broke off with a sound of exasperation and continued to pace. “I should have known you’d do something like that. And how like you to stick me with Lady Stansbury instead.”

“It’s not my fault you chose a chaperone who could be bought. And the baroness, being a practical woman as well as stone broke, appreciated that I would be a more lucrative source of income than you. As for Lady Stansbury, she is a much more appropriate chaperone than Baroness Vasiliev. And,” he added as she made a sound of derision, “you’d be wise to stay in her good graces. She lives very near my sister, and if you end up staying with Irene, you’ll see a great deal of the woman in the future.”

“Lucky me,” Marjorie muttered, turning at the wall to go back across the cabin. “She’s a dragon.”

“She is, isn’t she?” he agreed with immense satisfaction, knowing de la Rosa wouldn’t dare come anywhere near Marjorie if Lady Stansbury was in the vicinity.

“She’s moved me into her suite, you know—lock, stock, and barrel. She unpacked all my things without even asking me, and went through all my clothes, piece by piece. She even went through my unmentionables!”

Involuntarily, Jonathan’s gaze lowered, skimming over Marjorie’s figure in immediate speculation.

“Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is for me to have a woman I don’t even know studying my undergarments and clicking her tongue with disapproval over even the tiniest bit of lace or ribbon?”

How much lace?he wondered, watching the sway of her hips as she moved back and forth in front of him in her tight-fitting gown.How many ribbons?

“She said all the falderals—as she called them—will have to be removed. What does it matter if there’s lace on my petticoats?” Marjorie demanded, her voice rising a notch as Jonathan’s mind began sinking into the gutter. “No one’s going to see them anyway. It’s so ridiculous.”

It seemed that way to him as well, but then, he was a man, and though he did possess some useful knowledge of women’s underwear, he didn’t know what mourning underwear was supposed to look like. Before he could offer an appropriate reply, however, Marjorie was off again.

“And then, she bundled up all the clothes that she’d decided were unsuitable and packed them into a trunk, declaring I’m no longer allowed to wear them.”

“Even the underclothes?” he couldn’t resist asking.

She gave him a scathing look as she passed him, clearly unamused. “Those she gave to her maid—all the ones I’m not wearing right this minute, anyway. She ordered the woman to remove anything that might be considered ornamental from every pair of drawers, every petticoat, every chemise, and every corset I own.”

“That,” he murmured with a most unguardianlike regret, “is a shame.”

“And then do you know what she did? She ordered the purser to have the trunk with all myunsuitableclothes put in the hold. Oh, she was so superior, so arrogant, is it any wonder I want to pitch her overboard?”

With those words, Jonathan was forced to pull his mind away from the rather dangerous direction it had been heading and address the problem at hand. “Cheer up,” he said, deciding an attempt at consolation was his best bet. “At least she didn’t pack up your evening gown and put that in the hold.”

“Oh, she tried.” Marjorie gave him a triumphant smile as she passed. “But I explained that this gown belonged to Baroness Vasiliev. She immediately returned it, which I knew she would, and after I pleaded a headache, I went to the baroness and got it back.”

“Of course you did,” he murmured with a sigh.

“I don’t even know this Lady Stansbury. Who is she to tell me what I can and can’t wear? Who is she to tell her maid to alter my underclothes?”

“She is a woman of great influence, and when the time comes, she could prove a valuable connection for you. And having raised four daughters, she is fully aware of how to be a chaperone. For the time being, at least, I should advise you to trust her judgement.”

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