A Penniless Prospect. Joanna Maitland
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The boy was breathing,
thank God.
Richard turned Jamie over. To his surprise, he found, instead of broken and bleeding skin, thin bandages covering most of the boy’s back.
Richard crossed to his desk for scissors, then cut through the bandages from waist to shoulder. He was relieved to find that a few fine red lines were the only sign of the beating Jamie had received.
Gently he turned him on his back to make him more comfortable. The bandages fell away. To Richard’s astonishment, he found that his hands were cradling, not the body of a thirteen-year-old boy, but the breasts of a fully formed girl.
Richard’s head spun. He remembered everything that had happened since Jamie had come into his life. All the strange attraction he had felt toward the boy. His hands continued to cup her breasts.
At that moment Jamie’s eyes opened and she looked up into his.
A Penniless Prospect
Joanna Maitland
MILLS & BOON
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JOANNA MAITLAND
was born and educated in Scotland, though she has spent most of her adult life in England or abroad. She has been a systems analyst, an accountant, a civil servant and director of a charity. She started to write for her children when they were very small, and progressed from there into historical fiction, which she used to write while commuting daily to London. Joanna now works as a part-time consultant so that she can devote more time to her writing, her husband and two children, and their acre of untamed garden in Hampshire.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter One
‘It’s Cinderella, all over again. Who says fairy tales don’t come true? The only difference is, I’m a mite short of fairy godmothers.’ With a heartfelt sigh, Jessamyne sank into a hard, straight-backed chair, the only one in her spartan bedroom.
‘Oh, miss, you mustn’t take on so. If my lady should hear you—’
‘The wicked stepmother? Come now, Biddy dear, she knows precisely what I think of her, as you are well aware. But she also knows there is nothing I can do about it, since she has my father’s ear as well as control of the purse-strings. Papa will not help me. And without money, I cannot help myself. Now, if you were but a fairy godmother, Biddy…’
‘Oh, give over, Miss Jamie, do. Them things only happen in fairy stories. There ain’t no Prince Charmings in the real world. P’raps if you was to make more of an effort to please her ladyship—’
‘I’ve tried that, Biddy. You know I have. It doesn’t work. She simply walks all over me. But if I stand up to her, she has to acknowledge I exist, however little good it may do me.’ She glanced at the empty grate and the layer of crazed ice on the inside of the window pane. Drawing her threadbare shawl more closely round her shoulders, she smiled bravely at her old nurse. ‘At least she doesn’t make me scrub floors and sweep cinders.’
‘No,’ agreed Biddy, ‘but it would make little difference if she did. Your hands are little better than a scullery maid’s, with all that gardening you do. In the depths of winter, too! If only you would—’
She was interrupted by a scratching at the door— a maid with a message summoning Miss Jessamyne to her stepmother’s dressing-room.
Jamie swallowed hard. Such a summons always boded ill. Sometimes she would simply be berated, belittled for her looks or her behaviour. Sometimes she would hear of punishments to come, for real or imagined transgressions. And sometimes both. Never, in all Lady Calderwood’s time in the house, had she spoken a single kind or loving word to her stepdaughter. There was no reason to suppose that this summons would be any different.
Although Jamie entered those stern precincts with head held high, she could not wholly conceal the uncertainty she felt. Lady Calderwood was seated at her dressing table while her abigail put the finishing touches to her hair. Jamie was left standing by the door, unacknowledged, for several minutes. Her uncertainty was soon replaced by indignation. How dared that woman treat her so?
At length, her ladyship was satisfied, and her woman was dismissed. She turned slowly to look at her stepdaughter, scrutinising her from head to toe with ill-concealed dislike. Her lip curled slightly. ‘Well, Jessamyne, you may guess why I have sent for you.’
‘No, ma’am,’ replied Jamie evenly, ‘I have not the least idea.’ She noted, without surprise, that she was not invited to sit. She was deliberately being left to stand like a disobedient child awaiting punishment. Well, she would not help her stepmother to play her little games. Jamie lifted her chin a fraction. She would not say anything more.
After a moment, Lady Calderwood continued grimly, ‘Very well, I shall tell you, since you do not wish to venture an opinion.’ She gave a very nasty smile at which Jamie shivered a little, in spite of all her efforts at self-control. She felt so helpless when she was in the power of this woman.
Her ladyship’s smile broadened. ‘You are past twenty already, Jessamyne. It is high time you were married and ceased to be such a charge on your poor papa.’
Jamie bit her lip in frustration. She was precious little charge on ‘poor papa’, considering how little was spent on her. She could not remember when she had last had a new gown or anything becoming to wear, even at second hand. But marriage—did that mean a season in London, at last? And perhaps even a few new gowns? For if they did not garb her becomingly, who would be found to offer for her?
‘Of course, there can be no question of a season for you,’ announced her ladyship sharply, watching her stepdaughter’s face fall. ‘Your papa could not countenance the expense. And it would be a waste of money, for who would choose to offer for a girl like you? No looks and no portion? No.