From Wallflower to Countess. Janice Preston

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      The energetic country dance afforded them scant opportunity or, indeed, breath to talk further and it was not until supper that they continued their conversation. The other guests—in a rare show of consideration—allowed the newly betrothed couple to eat their food in relative privacy.

      ‘We have much to discuss.’ Stanton deposited a plate piled high with food in front of Felicity.

      ‘I find I am not very hungry, sir,’ Felicity said, her stomach clenching at the sight and smell of the food. ‘What do you wish to discuss?’

      ‘The wedding itself is in hand. Leo and I met with your mother and Farlowe earlier and it has been agreed the wedding will take place on Thursday morning, as long as the rector is available to perform the ceremony. Will that give you enough time to prepare? Your mother was anxious about your dress.’

      ‘I have a suitable dress I can wear, my lord.’

      ‘Good. Farlowe has undertaken to speak to the rector as soon as you arrive home tomorrow and, as I already told you, I shall call on the Bishop of Bath and Wells to procure the licence on my way to Bath. As long as the rector has some spare time before noon on Thursday there is no reason why we cannot be married on that day. If not, we shall have to wait until we can be fitted in.’

       It all sounds so businesslike and unromantic.

       Of course it is, you fool. It is an arranged marriage. Sentiment and romance do not come into it.

      She buried any hint of regret deep inside. She did not want love. It was her decision. Love hurt. Love destroyed. She watched as Stanton played with his wine glass, his long fingers stroking the stem. Was he not quite as composed as she imagined? He must be like granite if he did not feel some emotion. Marriage, even a marriage of convenience, was not to be entered into lightly.

      And yet, here they were, two virtual strangers, planning their wedding. She gazed around the room. The chatter of the other guests intruded, dispersing the haze of unreality that had enveloped her.

      ‘Will you tell me more about Westfield? How did you become involved in such a place?’

      She tensed. Would he disapprove? His question reminded her of the power this man would wield over her. He was, surely, more open-minded and charitable than Farlowe? She gripped her hands in her lap.

      ‘It was established by my childhood friend, Jane Whittaker, and her husband, Peter, who is a schoolmaster. Jane inherited a large house and some money from her great-aunt, and they set up a school to help the children of the poor better themselves.’

      ‘It is a school, then.’

      ‘That was the original intention, but Mr Whittaker’s brother is a magistrate and he told them how many orphans were brought up before him, so they decided to provide a home for orphans too. The children are taught their letters and numbers and, as they get older, we find them placements with tradespeople and in households, where they are trained to become useful members of society.’

      ‘Which trades?’

      There was no denying the genuine interest in his voice.

      ‘Any and every trade you may imagine. Shoemakers, coopers, butchers, tailors, milliners—we try to match the child to some trade they have an interest in or aptitude for. That, I must confess, is where both Dominic and I can help, as well as collecting donations, of course. We can be most persuasive. We seldom meet with a flat refusal to take a child.’

      ‘I was astonished to hear of Avon’s involvement.’

      ‘He was very young when his mother died and that experience nurtured in him a kinship, of sorts, with children who are orphaned. However painful his loss, how much worse would it be to lose both parents and to СКАЧАТЬ