MARIANNE: A Regency Romance (Miss Wolfraston's Ladies Book 1) by Jenny Hambly

Author:Jenny Hambly [Hambly, Jenny]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2020-03-19T00:00:00+00:00

Milton opened the door before Lady Brancaster and Marianne had mounted the first step, his face grave.

“Miss Bragg and Lady Georgianna are in the morning room, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Milton. Inform them I will meet them in the drawing room in a few minutes. We are expecting visitors. If Sir Robert, Lord Cranbourne, or Sir Horace Bamber arrive, show them up immediately, we are not at home to anyone else.”

“Very well, ma’am.”

Lady Brancaster took Marianne straight to her bedchamber. It was the largest of the bedrooms and doubled as her private sitting room. She led Marianne to a sofa set before the fireplace and gently bathed her wrists with vinegar.

Marianne sucked in her breath and winced.

“I am sorry, my love, but that rope looked very dirty. It will only sting for a moment.”

She wandered over to her dressing table and surveyed the many small pots that littered it for a moment. “Ah, the alkanet ointment, I think.”

She gently rubbed the ointment into the ugly red welts that marked Marianne’s wrists. “This will soothe them.”

“I am sorry, Aunt Fanny,” she said in a small voice.

Lady Brancaster glanced up at her, her eyes unusually serious. “What is it that you are sorry for, Marianne? Going against my wishes, getting found out, causing me a great deal of worry, or very nearly embroiling yourself in the most unsavoury of scandals?”

Although her aunt’s voice was gentle, Marianne’s eyes shimmered with tears.

“All of them. I-I didn’t see the harm—”

“You never do,” Lady Brancaster said. “And although every generation feels it knows better than the one that went before, it is time you learned that your elders are wiser than you. You are a very green girl, Marianne. You know nothing of the world yet and must allow yourself to be advised by those who do.”

Unused to hearing her aunt talk to her in such a stern tone, the tears overflowed, running silently down her pale cheeks.

Lady Brancaster’s eyes softened, she bent towards her niece as if to embrace her but then paused, straightened, and crossed again to her dressing table. Opening a small drawer, she retrieved a handkerchief and a pair of gloves and offered them to Marianne. “A good cry will probably relieve your feelings and these gloves will cover your wrists. I shall be in the drawing room when you have collected yourself.”

As soon as the door closed softly behind her, Marianne buried her face in the handkerchief to quieten the wrenching sobs that racked her. Lady Brancaster’s disapproval weighed heavy on her heart. To have earned such censure from the one who most closely reminded her of her mother brought her to a realisation of just how foolish she had been. She had, she realised, been blinded by hubris. She had acted in a way she knew her aunt would have disapproved of because she felt it was the right thing to do, but also because she prided herself on her intelligence and judgement – a judgement that had proved to be sadly lacking.

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