How a Lady Weds a Rogue by Katharine Ashe

Author:Katharine Ashe
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2012-09-25T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

“My gown is growing mold.” She held it up to the morning light peeking through the window.

“All that rain.” Mrs. Polley took up Diantha’s other gown. “And this one a shambles with no iron to be found.”

“Perhaps the mold can be washed out.” Diantha scrubbed at the misty smear on the hem of the pin-striped muslin, but it clung. The green gown truly was a shambles, torn at the hem and horrendously crumpled from when she’d followed Mr. Eads over the stile.

She sighed. She’d wanted to look especially like a lady today. Perhaps even as elegant as the lady whose house they camped in now. “We haven’t yet looked in the attic!”

“I’ll not go prying into other folks’ closets.”

“Mrs. Polley, you knocked a stranger over the head with a cheese crock yet you will not peek into an attic now in search of an iron?”

“It was a shame to ruin that crockery.” Mrs. Polley shook her head. “If I’d had a flatiron I would’ve used it on him instead.”

Diantha stifled a giggle and went into the corridor to the attic door. Wyn had taken Galahad out for a ride, and Owen was collecting eggs. Her feet were cold, but she could wander about in her shift and petticoat without concern for propriety. Wyn had already seen her naked breasts, of course, but he didn’t remember it so he may as well not have.

She climbed stairs to the room at the top of the house, its ceiling narrowing to a point. Like in the attic at Glenhaven Hall, traveling trunks and old furniture were everywhere. She found an unlocked trunk and the pungent scent of camphor balls sprang forth. Then she sighed in sheer pleasure. Drawing out one after another fine gown, tenderly stroking muslin, silk, and wool, she sighed again and missed her own clothing acutely.

Her gaze darted to the next trunk. She reached for it. Slippers, boots, pattens, fichus, petticoats, shifts, stays, ribbons, reticules, garters, stockings, shawls, pelisses, and handkerchiefs with initials embroidered into them—all smelling of camphor—tumbled into her hands. But she didn’t care about the odor. She could live with a wrinkled nose for a day if the rest of her weren’t wrinkled.

She plucked up a gown and held it before her. It was short by several inches. Her petticoat would show. But not if she wore the lady’s petticoat too.

She paused a moment in her head-on rush toward more thievery to consider. But she could not see the crime in it. She would return the garments in neat order before they departed the abbey tomorrow. Also, Wyn wouldn’t care if he saw her ankles. He had threatened a man who jeopardized her safety with a pistol, caressed her intimately while foxed, and walked through a torrential downpour leading her horse for an entire day. And she had seen him—touched him—in his shirtsleeves, without a cravat. Also, she’d made his bed. They may as well be on ankle-glimpsing terms too.

Before she could delay another moment—because Guilt

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