Free Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) by Donna Lea Simpson Page A

haste.

Chapter Six
     
    “What took you so long?” Arabella snapped.
    She was always like that when hungry, and True resisted the urge to snap back. Laying the plate of bread and butter on the vanity table, she crossed to the washbasin, dumped the cold water into a pail by the door and refilled the china bowl with steaming water from the ewer. It would do neither of them good to quarrel, and she wanted quiet and solitude to ponder what had just happened. It had been seven years since she had kissed a man, and God help her, but even Harry’s kisses had never ever made her feel as though her body was aflame, or like her bones were turning to gruel.
    Fussing with the hot water, and then washing her face, she kept her back to Bella, sure her cheeks must be bright scarlet. Her cousin was occasionally selfish and always self-involved, but she was also surprisingly shrewd about some things. True would not risk being questioned.
    “I have brought bread and jam,” she said, patting at her face with a cloth. “It was all Mrs. Lincoln had. I’m tired. I’ll leave the candle for you.” True undressed in the shadows, laid her clothing neatly over the chair by the bedside and slipped the nightrail on over her shift, shivering a little in the damp chill of their room. She didn’t really think she would sleep, but neither did she want to talk. “Good night, Bella.” She slid under the covers and turned on one side, facing the wall.
     
    • • •
     
    Arabella stood staring at the dark hump in the bed that was her cousin. She bit her lip. Had she been peevish enough that she had offended True? Not possible! If there was one thing in her world that was a rock, one person whom she could trust, it was Truelove Becket. True was gentle, complaisant, sweet-tempered to a fault. Arabella tried not to take out her peevish humors on her cousin, but the trouble was, she knew True would forgive her after, and so she did not always guard her tongue as she ought. She considered apologizing, but it looked as if True was asleep already, and she supposed she shouldn’t disturb her.
    Perhaps she wasn’t feeling well.
    Sitting at the vanity table, Arabella picked up one of the slices of bread and jam and bit into it. Instantly the homely taste brought back vivid memories of childhood stays at the vicarage, and of True smuggling late night feasts of bread and jam from the kitchen as they giggled and gossiped with Faithful, True’s younger sister. Tears started in her eyes.
    It was strange that even though she had spent three glittering Seasons enjoying London, the memories of the vicarage were still sharp and clear, and could still raise a lump in her throat. For all those years she had never thought that her mother really loved her; she could not and abandon her daughter at the vicarage for every school holiday with excuses of travel and commitments. And yet with True and Faithful as her friends, and the gentle vicar as a substitute father, she was not the lonely little girl who had first arrived there at eight years of age.
    She would never stop loving her cousin for that, even though now her mother seemed to value Arabella as she should. True had made the vicarage what she would always think of as her childhood home. Arabella glanced over at the bed, took a deep breath and whispered, “I’m sorry, True, for being snappish,” she whispered. “Good night.”
    She had to learn to curb her tongue. Sometimes she longed for the old days, the simpler days, but that part of her life was over. Now she was engaged in the serious business of finding a husband, a wealthy, titled, and hopefully attractive husband, and it must absorb all of her concentration. Her mother had been unusually insistent about the necessity of attracting Lord Drake and getting a proposal out of him. She would have to watch the man, and decide how best to flatter and tease him into love.
    Meal done, she blew out the candle and crept into bed beside her cousin. Within minutes