Barely a Bride (Free Fellows League 1)

Durham threw up her arm, shielding her face as if from a blow, as Lady Tressingham strode across the room and picked up the fire poker.

“I’m not going to hit you!” Lady Tressingham announced, bending before the fireplace, stirring the smoldering coals to life. “I’m going to stoke the coals while you”—she glanced at the maid—“go down to the kitchen and order the hot water for my daughter’s bath and fetch my breakfast tray.”

“Yes, milady.” Durham bobbed a final curtsy, then jerked open the door and scurried out of the room. “Right away, milady.”

Lady Tressingham turned to her daughter. “And you—”

Alyssa bit her bottom lip and glanced down at her feet in a vain attempt to appear contrite.

Lady Tressingham wasn’t fooled. “Look at me.” She frowned at Alyssa.

Alyssa obeyed.

Lady Tressingham held out her hand. “My pelisse, if you please.”

Alyssa shrugged out of the garment and handed it to her mother.

“Now,” Lady Tressingham pronounced. “Take off that habit.”

Alyssa moved toward the dressing screen standing in the corner of the bedchamber.

Lady Tressingham shook her head. “Here. In front of the fire where I can see you.”

“But, Mama…” Alyssa felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment.

“Now, Alyssa.”

Alyssa unbuttoned the bodice of her riding habit and slipped it off her shoulders, then stood clutching the well-worn fabric in her hand. She let out a sigh. Her old riding habit had served her well. And replacing it would take a bit of doing. Alyssa glanced at the massive cherry wardrobe dominating the wall opposite her bed. Her winter clothes were packed away in the attic of their country home, but there had to be something she could use, something dark, something she might have worn for mourning. She bit her lip once again. But what? There hadn’t been a death in the family since they’d come to London. And if there had been, they wouldn’t be in London. The family, out of respect for the dead, would have forgone the season and returned to the country. Still…the maids wore black. Perhaps she could trade one of the many pastel muslins her mother had ordered for the season to one of the maids for a dress in nice serviceable black—

“No.”

Alyssa glanced at her mother. “Pardon?”

“No to whatever it is you’re thinking,” Lady Tressingham said. “Now, hand over the bodice and take off your skirts and that threadbare chemise.”

“Mama!”

Lady Tressingham studied the color staining Alyssa’s face and neck. “You undress in front of Durham.”

“I do not!” Alyssa protested. “I use the screen.”

“I’m your mother, Alyssa. I’ve seen you in the altogether.”

“Not since I’ve grown up.”

Lady Tressingham smiled. “Have you? Judging from your grubby appearance and your behavior, I’d say it’s a matter of debate as to whether or not you have grown up.”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“Do I?” Lady Tressingham tossed the bodice of Alyssa’s riding habit into the fireplace. She snapped her finger. “Your skirt, Alyssa.”

Alyssa unfastened her skirt and stepped out of it, glaring at her mother as she did so.

Lady Tressingham ignored her. Scooping the skirt from the floor, she folded it neatly and then tossed it onto the fire.

Alyssa watched in horrible fascination as the coals burst into flames that consumed the fabric. “I am not a child.”

“Yet you persist in behaving like one,” Lady Tressingham countered.