Free The Wedding Game by Jane Feather Page B

close-fitting neck that encircled her throat in bands of lace. It was one of her favorites, as was the skirt of russet-colored poplin that she laid beside it on the bed. It was an outfit in which she always felt confident. A pair of black, buttoned boots and a wide black belt completed the effect. She put her hands at her waist and decided with some satisfaction that she was definitely slimmer than she had been a few weeks earlier.
    She sat at the dresser to deal with her hair. Unlike her sisters, whose hair waved in a very convenient fashion, lending itself to many different styles, Chastity's was a mop of thick and unruly curls that were hard to tame. Where her sisters had hair that could be called auburn, shading from such attractively subtle colors as russet to cinnamon, Chastity's was unashamedly red. But at least it was definitely red, not orange, she told herself as she twisted it into a knot that she fastened on top of her head with long and firmly inserted pins. She combed out the side ringlets that clustered around her ears, and teased a few tendrils to wisp on her forehead.
    She examined the whole with a critical eye and decided that it was as good as it was going to get.
    “Chas, are you ready? It's nearly three.” Prudence stuck her head around the door. “Oh, you're wearing that lovely blouse. It suits you so well. I love that collar.”
    “So do I,” Chastity said, turning on the stool. “Could you fasten the buttons on my right wrist? They're so tiny, my fingers become all thumbs.” She held out her right arm.
    Prudence obliged, deftly inserting the minute pearl buttons into the silk loops. “I wonder if our Dr. Farrell will arrive early and eager,” she commented. “Or saunter in nonchalantly at the very end of the afternoon.”
    “I don't know,” Chastity said. “I hope he doesn't come before his quarry. We'll have to talk to him ourselves if he does.” She stood up, smoothing down her skirts. “Let's go down.”
    Prudence followed her downstairs, reflecting that she was looking forward to meeting this ogre who had caused such an extraordinary reaction in her placid, sweet-natured sister.
             
    Douglas Farrell was in no hurry to present himself at the door of No. 10 Manchester Square. He sauntered twice around the square, observing the carriages pulling up outside the house, trying to guess which of the female visitors was the one earmarked for his consideration. They seemed to come in pairs and trios of all shapes, sizes, and ages, some with male escorts, some alone. The Wednesday At Home at No. 10 seemed to be a popular event. He wondered about the Honorable Miss Chastity Duncan. Some elderly spinster, probably. Rich enough, certainly, judging by the imposing double-fronted edifice of the house. But then, of course, she could be some poor relation acting as companion or carer to an elderly relative. Some charity case responsible for walking overfed pug dogs and listening to the valetudinarian complaints of her benefactor.
    He'd met plenty of women in such situations in his father's practice in Edinburgh, and he supposed that once he had established himself on Harley Street he would meet the English variety. But it would be unusual for a woman in such a subordinate position, little more than an upper servant, really, to be hosting the At Home. Passing the cakes, yes, fetching and carrying, yes, but hostess, unlikely.
    Well, he wasn't going to find out by circling the square, Douglas decided. He glanced at his fob watch. It was just after three-thirty. Time to go in and meet his fate.
    He ascended the steps to the front door and banged the highly polished lion's head door knocker. The door opened while the clang was still resounding in the air. A stately, white-haired butler greeted him with a bow. “Good afternoon, sir.”
    Douglas handed him his visiting card. “Dr. Farrell,” he said. “I need to talk with Lord Buckingham, who, I understand, is visiting Miss Duncan this