Page 1 of Harpy of the Ton
Chapter One
“There’s a manin the garden, miss—and he’snaked!”
Arabella glanced up. Her maid stood at the window, her face flushed pink.
“Come away from the window, Connie,” she said. “You shouldn’t ogle men like a common harlot.”
The maid’s blush deepened. “Sorry, miss.”
“I don’t want you to besorry—I want you to behave as a lady’s maid ought. And not just any maid—mymaid. How you behave is a reflection of me. Did you find my parasol?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Then bring it, and go.”
Apprehension flickered in the maid’s eyes.
Good. Servants should fear their betters, to ensure proper behavior.
Or so Aunt Kathleen said. And she should know—she’d replaced her maid six times due to inappropriate behavior such astalking back,disrespecting her betters—and, worst of all,expressing an opinion. According to Aunt, opinions were not for the lower classes.
The maid held out the parasol, and Arabella took it, dismissing her with a curt nod.
She watched Connie’s retreating back and sighed.
What might life be like if she ignored her aunt’s instructions to set herself apart from others and, instead, sought out friendships?
Arabella pushed the notion aside. Nobody in Society wanted to befriendswith anyone. She was an object of envy. No, not envy—resentment. Envy implied that her rivals wanted to be in her position. But they didn’t. Instead, they wanted to see her position stripped from her, as punishment for having been born into beauty, wealth, and a title.
She rose and exited her chamber.
A duchess. She was to be aduchess—the ultimate prize for a woman.
So Aunt Kathleen said.
Arabella descended the staircase, each stair creaking beneath her feet, gripping the banister with her free hand.
If she slipped and fell, would anybody care?
She drew in a sharp breath and stopped at the foot of the stairs to concentrate on maintaining her balance.
“Lady Arabella—are you well?”
A footman approached, his boots clicking on the floor. He reached for her arm, and she jerked free.
“Don’t touch me!” she snapped.
“Very good, miss.” He bowed, his expression impassive, and withdrew.
She didn’t know what was worse—the dislike she’d expected, or his indifference to her incivility. But, to the footman, she was merely a means to earn a living. She had no control over his life. In time, he would secure employment in another household and effect his escape.
But for her, there was no escape.
Arabella made her way through the hallway along the east wing, overlooking the garden. She’d made such a fuss about itsredesign, but it was one of the few aspects of her life over which she’d been given a speck of control.
She glanced through the window, and her heart fluttered as she caught sight of the gardener. His back to her, he brandished a shovel, his body half concealed behind a stack of shrubs lying on their side.
Connie had been right—hewasnaked.
