Page 24 of The Marquess of Temptation
Chapter Eleven
In the past fortnight Hestia's life had changed so much, that sometimes she found herself pinching her arm, to ensure that she wasn't simply dreaming.
She had gone from the position of lowly paid companion, to the honoured guest of an Earl and Countess, and with that had come a plethora of luxuries. Her bedroom was no longer a small, cramped servant's room on the top floor of the house, but an enormous suite of rooms on the first floor, complete with four poster bed and a feather mattress. The bed chamber alone was nearly the size of the entire cottage that she had grown up in and she found its proportions a little overwhelming.
Henry, who had always had delusions of grandeur, had settled in rather well to his new accommodation, though Hestia still felt a little nervous at her grand surroundings, she had, however, grown very fond of her hostess.
Phoebe, Lady Thackery was quite different to her brother. Where the Marquess was cool and aloof, his sister was warm and open. She treated Hestia like an equal, taking her with her on her morning calls, and accompanying her to amodiste, who was commissioned to make the future Marchioness of Falconbridge a dozen new dresses.
"I can't allow you to spend so much money, my Lady," Hestia had stuttered, red-faced at the extravagance.
"Oh, don't be silly dear. It's not my money, it's Alex's," Lady Thackery had responded happily. "He has given mecarte blancheto spend what I like on your new wardrobe. And how many times must I tell you, call me Phoebe."
Once Hestia's wardrobe was filled with six day dresses, a riding habit and several beautiful ball-gowns, a notice was put in the paper to find her a lady's maid. If somebody had told Hestia a year ago, that she would need someone to help her dress every morning, she would have said they were fit for Bedlam. Having witnessed the complicated strings, bows and laces attached to her stays and new dresses, Hestia soon relented that lady's maid was, in fact, a necessity for a lady.
The girl who was hired, Catherine, had auburn hair and an unplacable accent.
"My last mistress was married to an Irish Earl and I spent many years there, near Kerry," was all she offered, when Hestia questioned it one morning. Although the girl was reticent to offer details of her past employment, she was in general, good company for Hestia, who enjoyed listening to her melodic, lilting voice.
Catherine accompanied her everywhere, and when she wasn't shadowed by her lady's maid, she was with Lady Thackery and frequently the Marquess, who called every day. That she and Lord Delaney were to be wed, still seemed like a faintly ridiculous notion to Hestia. Sometimes she was so overwhelmed at the idea of becoming his wife, that she felt she could bolt, but there was always someone present to prevent her escape.
I just need a morning to myself, to think, she thought with despair after another round of house-calls with Lady Thackery. As it happened once they arrived home, Phoebe, who was usually brimming with energy, declared herself exhausted and repaired to her rooms for a nap. Catherine, who had joined Henry as Hestia's second shadow, looked at Hestia expectantly, waiting to be told what to do next.
"Would you like to take the afternoon off, Catherine?" Hestia asked, trying to keep the hopeful note from her voice. "We've been so busy these past few days, I'm sure you are as exhausted as I."
"I can help you get ready for bed, ma'am," Catherine offered.
"Oh, thank you, but no," Hestia replied firmly, "I think I'll just stay in my room and read. Off you go, put your feet up. I'll call if I need you."
Hestia waited until she was certain that the girl had gone up to her room, before grabbing Henry's leash from her bedroom, and slipping out the servant's door at the rear of the house.
Freedom.
She pulled her shawl tightly around her, to ward off the brisk Spring air, and hurried down Dover Street, toward Piccadilly. The footpaths were crowded with people from all walks of life, and too late Hestia thought of the hem of her dress, which was soon spattered with mud. Ladies did not walk places for a reason, she thought, as she surveyed her dress with dismay.
At Piccadilly she crossed the road, weaving through carriages and carts, until she reached the far footpath and the entrance to Green Park. At last, she thought happily, slowing her pace as she began her stroll through the lush, green park-lands.
Henry, who had been reluctant to leave the comfort of Thackery House, perked up at the familiar surroundings of Green Park. Hestia untied his leash and watched with satisfaction as he tore off across the fields, his tail wagging with excitement.
If only life could always be like this, she thought, as she followed the path farther into the park, where it was less crowded. She did like London, she liked the hustle and bustle that came with living in a large city, but at heart she was just a country mouse. She was also just a plain, un-titled, young woman; unused to the demands of society. Every day for the past fortnight, she had been paraded before the madams of the ton and her cheeks ached from smiling politely, while her head ached from trying to remember the strict social protocols she was supposed to adhere to.
It was all too much, she thought, and it was all distracting her from the pressing matter of finding out who it was that had murdered her father. Lord Delaney, who had danced attendance on her since their betrothal, had failed to mention the promise he had made to help her discover what had happened that fateful night in Cornwall. Any time she tried to raise the subject with him, he changed topic quickly, instead preferring to talk about their upcoming nuptials.
She was so frustrated that she could scream, and she knew that if she screamed, her ire would be directed at the Marquess, who kept insisting she call him Alex.
"Oh, Henry," she whispered to her small canine companion, who had returned from his explorations. "What am I to do?"
If Henry had any wisdom to offer, he kept his silence, though he did nudge her hand with his cool, wet nose, demanding a pat. Hestia happily obliged him before continuing with her stroll. She had been walking for about half an hour, when she crossed paths with a blonde haired man, who did a double take when he saw her approaching.
"Miss Stockbow," the man called, in accented English. "How 'appy I am to make your acquaintance."
"I am sorry, Sir, I do not know your name."
Hestia's thoughts instantly flew to the Marquess, and his words of warning that Green Park was not a safe place for a lady to walk alone. The man opposite her looked safe enough, he wore an elegant dark coat over breeches and boots, which looked as expensive as anything Falconbridge might wear.
"Ah, of course, My apologies - I am Pierre Dubois. I am sure that Lord Delaney has told you all about me."
"Ah," Hestia wracked her brain trying to remember if the Marquess had ever mentioned the French man to her.
