Maid Under The Mistletoe (The Mapleton Family Saga #1) - Annabelle Anders Page 0,4
barely blue. Miss Drake had had the right of it. “Blue.”
Michael raised his brows at the answer and Daphne sighed.
“Did you think I’d not know the color of my intended’s eyes?”
“Miss Fairchild is not your intended yet.” Michael pointed out.
“But for all intents and purposes, she is.” This was not the first time these two had bickered that morning. Through most of their childhoods, Anthony had felt like something of a referee.
“What color is Miss Fairchild’s hair?” Michael would return to this line of questioning.
“Blondish brown.” Anthony surmised. A rather unremarkable color all around. “Now if you both are done with your inquisition––”
“Dull brown.” Michael interjected. “Her eyes are dull blue, her hair a dull brown and her face, a very dull face. It seems, my dear brother, that you have chosen a woman for her very dullness in particular.”
“She will not be boring.” Daphne, dearest Daphne jumped to Miss Fairchild’s defense. “She will do her best to make everyone around her quite miserable.”
“Daph!” Anthony turned toward her. “You’ll do well to keep such comments to yourself in the future.”
Of course, his sister had an opinion. Since their mother had taken to her chamber, Daphne had taken over the running of the household. She would relinquish that duty to his future wife.
To Miss Fairchild.
“You are going to offer for her tomorrow?” Michael looked serious for the first time since they’d climbed into the carriage.
Anthony’s infernal cravat all but strangled him. Good God, he was going to have to speak with Penrose about his unbearably tight knots!
“Perhaps I’ll wait another day. Propose on Christmas Eve. I will take her driving tomorrow––into the village. I’ve a few last-minute Christmas gifts to purchase.”
“So you will delay. Effective tactic, brother. But it won’t work forever.”
Younger siblings could be more annoying than a horsehair sweater on a humid day.
“You’ll be wise to keep quiet today.” Susan advised Charlotte while preening at the looking glass. “I do wish Mama didn’t insist you ride along. It’s not as though we’re in London. A chaperone ought not be necessary for an innocent drive into the village.”
Charlotte had no choice but to accompany the courting couple once again this afternoon. She must, however, keep herself from commenting upon the Earl’s obviously contrived compliments and simply be thankful for the chance to venture out. She’d already gotten a glimpse of the lovely vehicle. The ride would be a treat alone. A chilly one, but a treat, nonetheless.
As she tugged her right glove over her hand, her pinky slipped out the end of the fingertip. She’d been meaning to mend it, but all her sewing energies had been put to work repairing the hems on three of Miss Fairchild’s gowns.
She never would have thought she’d miss the luxury of sewing her own garments.
Oh, Papa!
Unwittingly, Charlotte found herself blinking hard. It hadn’t been so very long ago since she’d been her own mistress and her time had been her own. Her greatest worry had been escaping church services without being held up by the local gossips. How naïve and foolish she had been!
Pushing the maudlin memories away, she followed Miss Fairchild out of her chamber. When they reached the balustrade, Charlotte nearly plowed the other girl over when she stopped dramatically and posed for inspection. Lord Mapleton stood below, with his head tilted upward and his hat in hand.
Like any good suitor, he anxiously awaited Miss Fairchild’s appearance––or appeared to be doing so, anyhow.
Because his gaze did not trail after the young lady of the house. No, it landed upon Charlotte.
No! No! No! Whatever was he thinking? Was it his intent to make her life miserable?
Charlotte scowled down at him and lowered her own gaze to her hands. It was just the sort of thing Lady Denton would notice.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting overly long.” Susan called down in a treacle-sweet voice, feigning regret. All three of them knew for a fact that he’d arrived forty minutes earlier. And he likely knew as well as they, that Miss Fairchild had been dressed and ready but insisted upon making him wait.
“Time is of no matter when you are the prize, Miss Fairchild.”
Charlotte required all of her resolve not to roll her eyes heavenward. Did he not realize how ridiculous these compliments sounded?
The object of his gibberish sighed dreamily and descended the steps with more haughtiness that a queen. When Charlotte dared to glance his way again, the blighter winked––yes, he winked––at her! He’d known the compliment was rubbish.
Oh, but this was