Gallant Waif by Anne Gracie (the alpha prince and his bride full story free .txt) 📗

a fallen woman. Without it, she would never be able to go about her daily work with a light heart, feeling free to tease and provoke Jack Carstairs if she felt like it, defying him when his bossiness became too provoking and arguing with him if she disagreed with his pronouncements.

She was thinking a little too much about Jack Carstairs these days, she realised. He was the first thing she thought of when she awoke. . .and the last, before she went to sleep. Even their frequent quarrels she found exhilarating. And, even when he was infuriating her with his interference, deep down she could not help feeling touched by his concern for her…warmed by it. And feeling warm feelings towards him in return. . .such feelings were dangerous.

Nothing could come of them. She would only hurt herself if she allowed herself to weaken. If—no, when he learned about her background, Jack Carstairs would be no different from any other man.

Jack glared at the closed door and clenched his fist at it, swearing softly. The chit had defied him yet again, blast it! But she wouldn’t get the better of him this time. She might think she had won the battle, but Major Jack Carstairs knew it was just a preliminary skirmish. And he had served under the Beau, the Marquis of Wellington, the ultimate master at turning retreat into victory.

A slow smile appeared on his lean face and he limped towards the writing desk, sat down and began to pen a letter to his grandmother.

Chapter Six

“Senorita Kate,” called Carlos from the hallway. “Something here for you.”

Kate stepped back from her task, and glanced around her with some satisfaction. With the aid of Millie and Florence, the girls from the farm, she had wrought a remarkable improvement in the room. The old, mismatched furniture looked infinitely better, gleaming softly from vigorous applications of beeswax. The dusty curtains had been taken down and laundered and brilliant late autumn sunshine streamed through the newly washed windows. The oak floor was freshly polished, and the old Persian carpet had been taken out and ruthlessly beaten until the rich colours glowed.

Housework might not be Kate’s favourite activity, but at least it showed results she could be proud of. The room looked warm and inviting, a far cry from when Lady Cahill had snorted at it so disparagingly. All that was needed now was a bowl of flowers or leaves. Perhaps she could find some in the tangled garden. Kate gathered up her cleaning rags and stepped into the hall.

“What is it, Carlos?”

“These arrive for you, senorita.” He gestured towards a large number of bulky packages resting on the long hall table.

“For me?”

“You like me to carry them upstairs for you, senorita?” Carlos offered politely. These days he treated her with the utmost respect. Once he might have thought her a skinny little mouse of a thing, with her huge greeny eyes and her shabby clothes, respected only because he was ordered to. But no one who had seen this little creature coolly stand up to his master would need to feign respect. Carlos had not forgotten the coffee pot, either.

“That would be very kind of you, Carlos,” Kate murmured abstractedly, puzzling over these unexpected and mysterious items. She followed him upstairs to her room, her arms full of parcels, and he even more heavily laden.

When he left, Kate opened the packages, slowly at first, then faster and faster, her head in a whirl. They contained everything she could ever think of needing. A wonderful warm merino pelisse. No cold winter wind would dare penetrate that to send her shaking and shivering. Dresses, in fine warm cloth, the colours dark—lavender, grey, black and a beautiful soft dove—nothing to offend her state of mourning.

And underclothing, some of fine, soft linen, trimmed with lace, some of silk and satin, the like of which Kate had never in her life seen or felt. Surely it would be positively sinful to wear garments such as these exquisite things next to your skin? As for the nightgowns and chemises—they bore no earthly resemblance to the patched, sturdy, voluminous garments Kate had worn most of her life.

She stared dumbfounded at the tumble of lovely things spread out across her bed. Jack had bought them, of course. He hadn’t listened to a word she’d said… But, oh, they were so beautiful. It had been so long since she’d had anything new, and these were of the finest quality. She wouldn’t wear them, but it wouldn’t hurt, surely, to hold them up against herself and look in the mirror and imagine, just for a moment, that they were hers.

She lifted the dove-coloured dress and stood in front of the mirror, holding it against her. It was very elegant—high-waisted, with a border of embroidered leaves around the hem—simply but beautifully cut. And the material felt so light and yet so warm. She rubbed her cheek against its soft folds and inhaled, savouring its new, delicious smell.

One after another, Kate held the dresses against her slender frame, draping them this way and that, trying to imagine how they would look if she were to wear them—which, of course, she could not.

She picked up a nightgown. Fine silk slipped through her fingers like water. She held it up, imagining herself wearing it, and blushed. It was. . .would be quite immodest. The Reverend Mr Farleigh’s daughter had never owned, or even imagined, such a garment. It was so fine that surely you could see through it. She slipped her fingers inside the nightgown and, sure enough, her skin glowed pinkly through the delicate fabric. She blushed a deeper rose and hastily put it down and then picked up the dove dress again.

“That colour suits you,” said a deep voice from the doorway.

Kate gasped and whirled around, clutching the dove frock against her, for all the world as if she were naked. Jack Carstairs stood in the open doorway, leaning casually against the door frame.

“H-how long