Page 22 of Harpy of the Ton
“Very good, miss. And perhaps some of that tincture for your skin. You don’t look at all well.”
“Do you mean to insult me?” Arabella snapped.
The maid cringed, then shook her head. “I spoke only out of concern, Lady Arabella. Forgive me if I gave offense.”
She bobbed another curtsey and exited the chamber, leaving Arabella with her reflection and her conscience.
“Oh, Connie, there’s nothing to forgive,” she whispered. “You’vecommitted no sin. Whereas I…”
Unwilling to face her image, she turned toward the window.
Shortly after, Connie reappeared carrying a small phial and a pitcher of water. Arabella resumed her position but closed her eyes, relishing her maid’s gentle ministrations while Connie dabbed her face with a cloth that gave off the faint scent of lavender, then ran a brush through her hair in a soft caress—her touch gentler than Arabella deserved.
Were their positions reversed and Connie was the mistress, Arabella would have sought retribution for her harsh words—scrubbing her face a little too hard, then driving the hairbrush into her scalp, running through the tangles without mercy. And, had Connie treated her with such roughness, she might have weathered it. But the kind, gentle touch—kindness she didn’t deserve—threatened to breach her defenses.
When Connie finished, Arabella opened her eyes and studied her reflection. Gone were the blotches on her cheeks—concealed cleverly under a layer of powder. Her hair shone, the intricate array of curls catching the light as she moved her head.
Her maid had worked a miracle. Gone was the sorry creature who’d had a taste of passion before tearing it apart with her hands. She had been replaced by Lady Arabella Ponsford—Society beauty and duchess-in-waiting.
We don’t thank the staff—it gives them ideas above their station.
Her aunt’s words echoing in her mind, Arabella gave a curt nod, then stood. Connie curtseyed then exited the chamber, leaving her alone.
Alone—and friendless.
But, as Aunt Kathleen said, she had no need for friends. Why would she, when she had a houseful of paid subordinates at her beck and call? She could live out her life in the manner to which she had been born—unimpeded by the need to open her heart to another living soul.
Her future as a duchess was all she needed.
Beinghappywas not a part of that.
Chapter Six
What the bloodyhell am I going to do?
“What did you say, my lovely?”
Lawrence glanced up at the comely face of the woman who’d warmed his bed the night he arrived at the King’s Head. Her full lips curved into a smile, and he almost forgot the pain.
Almost.
She dipped her fingers into the salve and smeared it over his hands.
He flinched.Fuck—that hurt!
“Sorry, my darlin’, but you’ll be as right as anything in the morning, especially if your Millie warms your bed tonight.”
He held up his hands. “There’s little I can do with these.”
She pursed her lips into a perfect rosebud. “A shame to womankind if those expert fingers of yours cannot be put to use,” she said. “But it wasn’t yer fingers that gave me such a pleasin’ time when ye came here. Yer tongue will please me just as well—and I’ve a fancy to riding that proud cock of yours.”
She leaned forward, offering her lips for a kiss, but he turned his head aside.
“Forgive me, Millie,” he said.
“Did I not please ye the other night?”
“You pleased me well enough, Millie, but…” He shook his head. “I’ve not the appetite for pleasure at the moment.”
