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“Oh, the countess! That’s all you care about!”
“Of course that’s all I care about! That’s why I married you!” he said.
“And that’s why you would bed me! Not because you wished to! Nor because I am pretty or—or—Oh, you are selfish beyond belief! I am nothing! My life, my past—my identity, even!—is nothing, except as it is useful to you, Claud. And now you will not take me for your wife, despite the fact that I have spent the whole day in a state of high anxiety only waiting for this moment!” Her voice thickened. “And it will be all to do again when you decide it must be done, after all, and you won’t care if I die of apprehension!”
A burst of sobs ended this speech. Aghast at her words, Claud sat irresolute, unable to think what to do. His conscience pricked at him. He looked at Kitty, all tousled hair and her face crumpled in distress, and instinct took over. The next moment she was in his arms, and his lips were buried in her neck….
Kitty
Harlequin Historical #178
Dear Reader,
I have often thought with sympathy of that army of sad spinsters in bygone days whose lot in life was to be a governess. Without means, marriage was out of the question, and so they entered alien households to work as a tutor.
In the Georgian world of my creation, three such young ladies, devoted friends, are just emerging from a charitable seminary in Paddington, where they have been prepared for just such a life.
First comes tender Prudence, a softhearted creature, who is hopelessly outclassed by the enterprising twin nieces of Julius Rookham. Resentful of his amusement at her struggles, Prue finds her unruly heart nevertheless warms to her employer.
Then there is practical Nell, buoyed up by a commonsense approach to the strange goings-on in the Gothic castle of a brooding widower and the erratic behavior of his little daughter. Yet she is drawn to the mystery of Lord Jarrow’s tortured past, and all Nell’s considerable strength of mind cannot prevent her from falling into a dangerous attraction.
Lastly, there is fanciful Kitty, the only one of the trio to escape the future mapped out for her. But her reality is a far cry from the golden ambition of her dreams.
I dedicate these stories to those unsung heroines condemned to a life of drudgery, who deserve all the romance they can get.
Kitty
Elizabeth Bailey
MILLS & BOON
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Available from Harlequin® Historical and ELIZABETH BAILEY
The Veiled Bride #152
Prudence #162
Nell #168
Kitty #178
ELIZABETH BAILEY
grew up in Malawi, then worked as an actress in British theater. Her interest in writing grew, at length overtaking acting. Instead, she taught drama, developing a third career as a playwright and director. She finds this a fulfilling combination, for each activity fuels the others, firing an incurably romantic imagination. Elizabeth lives in Sussex, England.
Contents
Chapter One
No warning of impending disaster struck the sleepy village of Paddington. A kindly sun obligingly cast its warmth upon the grateful inhabitants, while May bees and butterflies flitted about their business in the hedgerows. The carter’s horse plodded slowly around the confines of the Green, and the baker’s boy, sauntering from the shop to set out upon the next of his deliveries, let out a jaunty whistle.
He gave a cheery wave as he took in the identity of the young lady perched upon the fence that edged the Green, alongside the road leading to Edgware and thence to the metropolis. The baker’s boy was scarce to blame for missing the tell-tale reddened eyes, their brown the more lustrous for having being drowned in tears, for Miss Katherine Merrick undoubtedly added something to the picturesque scene.
A quantity of lush black curls descended halfway down her back, escaping from under a straw hat that framed a countenance undeniably lovely. A straight nose and a pretty mouth, just now turned down in discontent, were worthy of an ensemble more becoming than the dimity gown of faded pink, with its unfashionably low waist and three-quarter sleeves, and the short hem revealing more than a glimpse of the white cotton hose that Miss Merrick thoroughly detested.
Truth to tell, the young lady loathed every item she had on, from the ancient black shoes to the unmentionable undergarments that confined her curvaceous figure in the least flattering way. The gown was only marginally less hateful than the rest. Only how was one to manage upon a paltry income of three shillings a week?
It was through the agency of the upper maid at the Paddington Charitable Seminary for Indigent Young Ladies—which had been Miss Merrick’s home for more years than she cared to count—that she had acquired the pink cast-off gown. Where Parton got it, she could not have said. Indeed, she took care not to enquire too closely.
‘Let’s just say as I’ve a friend of a friend as is friend to