Page 4 of Buon Natale, My Wicked Rogue
In a whirl of crinkling petticoats and skirts, with the scents of perfume and fresh sweat mingling with the rich scent of new leather in the carriage, Susan joined her on the richly upholstered cushion. As Angela struggled to collect her breath, she reached for her friend’s hand and squeezed it.
Vi ringrazio, Onnipotente.
Her friend was safe. She was safe. Had it been so wise to be out and about at night like this, and had the promise of naughty fun been worth the risk?
The driver’s deep voice brought her back into the moment. He and the lady spoke, and then he closed the door.
The lady tapped the floor with her ornate walking stick. “You two girls are lucky I came along when I did. Normally, I wouldn’t have been so late. I love the fireworks here at Whitecross Manor. But one of the girls who assist with the care of my clothes was ill,and I wanted to wait until my doctor examined her before I left. Thank goodness he says she should be better in a day or two.”
Angela nodded her agreement to the lady, still struggling to catch her breath.
“I don’t understand it. Our roads here near the village are known for their safety,” the lady said as she drew her brows together. “Perhaps the celebration attracted some miscreants from far away.” The lady reached into the basket at her side and withdrew a flask. She uncapped it and handed it to Angela. “Please have a sip of this.”
Angela took the flask and gave it a delicate sniff. Brandy. It was not her favorite, but she put the flask to her lips and took a healthy gulp. Then another. The fiery swallow made her close her eyes, and a convulsive shiver overtook her. After a brief pause, she opened her eyes. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Feeling better?” the lady asked.
“I am much improved.”
For the first time, she noticed the lady’s lively brown eyes.
Intelligent eyes that had narrowed slightly, studying her. “You’re Italian.”
Of course, the lady knew. Her accent was always heavier when she was emotional. “I was born in Italy. But I am an American.” She said the last with conviction. It had been years since she had considered herself anything but American. She longed to have another drink, but she resisted the urge and then handed the flask to Susan. Her friend flashed her a grateful smile and took the flask, then took a deep drink.
Such an irregular situation. But she belatedly remembered her manners.
“I am Mrs. Angela Berry.” She was forced to pause for breath. Then she turned and nodded. “This is my friend, Mrs. Susan Kingston.” The older woman’s eyes lit with obvious interest.
“You are a widow.” She nodded. “Excellent.” Then, the elegant lady actually grinned. Broadly.
“Scusami?”Angela instantly bristled, hating that she’d blurted the question so hotly, hating that she hadn’t coolly said, ‘Pardon me, my lady?’ But had the woman known what the outwardly affable, tall, blond, young, and handsome Jacob had been like in private and how thoroughly miserable he had made Angela? No, she couldn’t have known.
But why say that it was excellent that Angela was now a widow?
The woman chuckled softly. “Forgive me. This evening’s excitement has distracted me from my manners. I am the Dowager Duchess of Wyndam.”
Angela caught her breath. A slight uneasiness made her wish for more of that brandy. Of all the things she had expected upon arriving in England, she had not expected the reception she had at her first contact with the English aristocracy. In fact, she had spent the past weeks recovering.
And she still hadn’t quite recovered. She was definitely not prepared to meet any other grand duchesses and dowager duchesses. Yet, it had already happened. She had not only met one but had been rescued by one.
How astonishing.
“Oh, but again, pardon my lack of manners,” Lady Wyndam turned to Susan. “I am so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kingston.”
“Thank you,” Susan said, with a quaver in her voice. “I am a widow as well, my lady.”
“Are you?” Lady Wyndam appeared delighted. “Would you two ladies do me the honor of accompanying me to the masquerade ball?”
“The one at Whitestone Manor?” Susan sounded incredulous.
“The very one. I seldom come up from London, but I do enjoy the celebrations here at my cousin’s estate.”
“I’d absolutely love to go, but even if I went home and changed, I have nothing fine enough to wear. Besides, I don’t know if my parents would approve of my going.” Susan looked so sad that Angela struggled not to gape at her friend.
Susan gave a better performance than she had ever seen back in Italy growing up amid her mother’s opera singers’ community. Where had Susan learned to act like that? Why was she lying to this lady?
Lady Wyndam waved her hand in dismissal. “I am staying at the dowager house here at Whitestone Manor as the guest of my cousin. I have some spare masks. You and Mrs. Berry can go as my lady’s maids.” For the first time since coming inside the carriage, Angela noticed that the dowager’s clothes were overly resplendent and in the style of the mid - eighteenth century.
