Free An Extraordinary Flirtation by Maggie MacKeever Page B

but not to this degree. Barrow set down the brush and began to braid the long red-gold hair, muttering dire warnings about being at one’s last prayers and left on the shelf.
    If Cara was praying for anything, it was that Barrow would leave her alone so that she could get on with what must be done. “I’m a widow, remember? I’m already off theshelf. But if it’s on the shelf you’ll have me, I am quite happy there.”
    Barrow didn’t believe a word of it. Her mistress hadn’t been happy for a long time. She tied a neat green ribbon at the end of the thick braid. “Squire Anderley has a decided partiality for you. You’re an ungrateful girl if you don’t appreciate what a singular stroke of good fortune that is.”
    Cara picked up a silver jar, and unscrewed the lid. “A good mount must be serviceably sound as well as good-mannered. Beauty being in the eye of the beholder, those are the qualities at the top of a prospective buyer’s list. And if she turns out to be a kicker, then he must put a red ribbon in her tail.”
    Barrow eyed the ribbon she had just tied, which apparently should have been red. “Take care lest you bungle it, my fine lady! The squire is a prize.”
    “The squire is a man!” Cara retorted in exasperation. “Much like any other, as near as I can see. Enough, Barrow. Leave me in peace.”
    “Hoity-toity!” muttered Barrow, under her breath. Aloud, she suggested various remedies for the headache that had kept her mistress at home.
    “No!” protested Cara. “I don’t want water of white poppies, or a poultice of violets, or to have my temples and forehead anointed with oil of roses and juice of sicklewort! Nor do I wish to endure any more lectures. Do go away, Barrow, and leave me to my bed.”
    Barrow narrowed her eyes. She knew her mistress well. Appearances to the contrary, Lady Norwood had as queer a kick in her gallop as any other Loversall.
    A mere servant, however, could hardly voice her misgivings. Or she could, but it would only put her mistress further out of temper. Wearing a martyred expression, the abigail left the room.
    Blessed silence. Cara put down the little pot she had been holding, and rubbed her temples. Daisy ambled over from the hearth to drop down at her feet. Cara stroked the setter’s silky back with one bare foot.
    Outside, darkness had fallen. Candlelight flickered on the satinwood dressing table, and firelight on the hearth. At this very moment, Beau and Ianthe and Zoe were displaying themselves at Covent Garden during a performance of Macbeth. Cara had pleaded a headache to avoid accompanying them. Beau thought she was sulking. Ianthe thought her very brave. Zoe patently thought of nothing but herself.
    Brave? She was an utter coward. But Ianthe had been correct in predicting Beau would do something dashing and dramatic and foolhardy if he knew his precious daughter had been offered an insult. Cara stared moodily at her reflection, then got up from the bench. Daisy rose also. “No!” said Cara. “You’re not going with me.” Not especially disappointed—it was dark outside—the setter stretched out on the hearth and went back to sleep.
    Cara dressed quickly and simply in one of her old gardening gowns, and for the difficulty of lacing them, left off her stays; twisted up her long braid atop her head and secured it there with pins. Then she wrapped herself in a dark cloak. No one would mistake her long for Zoe, for she was taller and more fully formed, but she should pass briefly in the dark, at least long enough to deliver a crushing rejection, a denunciation of ignoble motives, and a demand that paths should never again cross.
    And if the deception were discovered, then what? Cara didn’t know. Ianthe’s suggestions had been vague on that point. Before she left the room, Cara rearranged her pillows, pulled the coverlet over them, and extinguished the candles. Anyone who checked on her—Cara knew well that Barrow’s suspicions had been