Page 8 of The Heiress's Daughter
“She’s not pl—Look out!” he exclaimed as a ragged urchin darted into the road in front of them, almost under the horses’ hooves. Maggie’s horse reared and plunged. Race grabbed the bridle and dragged its head down, holding it until it was calm again. The child, apparently unaffected by his close call, disappeared down a side alley.
“Wretched brat nearly got himself killed,” Maggie said, her distress masking itself in anger. “What’s a child of that age doing running about the streets alone and unsupervised? Where are his parents? It’s a disgrace!”
Race shook his head. His cousin knew as well as he did that the streets were full of orphaned, abandoned and unsupervised children. But in recent months she had become very sensitive to the fate of children.
Her husband came up behind them. “Are you all right, my love?” He reached out and took her hand.
“Of course.” She smiled at him, all sign of nerves gone. “It was a close call, but the child wasn’t hurt. Besides, a little excitement never hurt anyone. Shall we continue?”
They rode on. “What were you saying again?” Maggie asked Race.
“I forget.”
“You said Miss Studley is not—what?” When he didn’t reply, she repeated, “What is she not?”
Race shrugged and shook his head. “No idea. Excuse me a moment, I might buy some of those.” He headed over to a man selling apples and bought a bag.
He had no intention of discussing either his thoughts about Miss Studley, or any future plans he might have. He was very fond of Maggie—she was his favorite relative—but discreet she was not. Besides, he didn’t have any future plans, not really. Just…possibilities.
He didn’t find Miss Studley in the least plain, not with that silken complexion, those expressive, wide-set hazel eyes—eyes a man could drown in—and that smile, the sweetest he’d ever seen. As for her being plump,voluptuouswas the word he would have used: he itched to get his hands on her.
Anyone who thought her plain was just…blind.
When he returned with the apples it was to find his cousin riding with her husband, and Miss Studley following behind. He joined her.
“Lord Frobisher was concerned about the fright Lady Frobisher had with that little street urchin,” she explained.
Race nodded. He doubted Maggie had had much of a fright—nerves of iron, his cousin. “I think she was more worried about that child.”
He thought he knew the source of his cousin’s increased concern for the fate of street children. Maggie’s failure to conceive, after eighteen months of marriage, was eating at her. Oh, she put a brave face on it, but society’s view was that the wife of a titled gentleman had but one duty to perform—provide her husband with an heir.
Race himself had been witness to a number of well-meaning female relatives making delicate—and less-than-delicate—inquiries and offering various suggestions for enhancing her fertility. Eat this, drink that. Have you tried…?
Not that Maggie’s husband, Oliver, seemed to mind. He’d pointed out on several occasions that he had younger brothers and was in no hurry for an heir. But despite her frivolous appearance, Race knew Maggie took her failure to conceive hard.
He glanced at Miss Studley and caught her gazing with a wistful expression at his cousin and her husband. “A penny for them,” he said softly.
She started slightly. “Oh, nothing of any significance.” A faint blush colored her cheeks. “I was thinking about the girl we’re going to get to be my sister’s maid.”
She was a very poor liar. It was another of the things Race liked about her. She hadn’t been thinking about a maid at all. One didn’t get wistful thinking about hiring a maid. Buthe let her explain how she and her maid were planning to visit an orphanage to find a girl to train up as a lady’s maid for her sister Izzy.
“Very commendable,” he said when she was finished. “But why not simply get an already-trained lady’s maid from an employment agency?”
She hesitated. “My maid, Betty, came from an orphanage, and we thought we’d like to give another orphan a chance. And Izzy liked the idea.”
There was more to it than she was saying—there were mysteries in the Studley sisters’ background—but though Race was intrigued, he knew better than to push her to explain. In some ways Clarissa Studley was like the sea anemones he’d found in rock pools as a boy; get too near and she closed right up.
Which was why he was taking things slowly.
“My maid and I are going this afternoon to select a girl.”
Race nodded. “Not your chaperone, Mrs. um…?”
“Mrs. Price-Jones? No, she has an appointment with our dressmaker. And since Betty will take the main responsibility for training the girl, I want her to help me choose the right sort of girl.”
She added defensively, as if he’d said something critical, “My sister and I have known Betty since we were all young girls together. She came with us from our home in the country. I trust her judgment implicitly.”
“Sounds like an excellent plan,” he said mildly.
