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Authors: Alyssa Everett
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slender blonde with blue eyes.”
“My Cassandra is white with a fine full breast—”
“I’d advise you not to compare your Cassandra to Miss Douglass on every score,” Win broke in, “at least not within Miss Douglass’s hearing. Ladies tend to take that sort of thing amiss.”
“Ah, so that’s what ‘comparisons are odious’ means. I had no idea it was unique to ladies.”
“Not unique to them, but...just refrain from doing it.”
Shaving that morning, Win had decided it didn’t much matter what he thought of Lady Radbourne, since he was leaving in a week. Months from now, either the countess’s baby would disinherit him and he’d remain at Hamble Grange, endeavoring to pay off the mortgage there, or she’d give birth to a girl, in which case he’d return to find her resenting him for stepping into her husband’s shoes.
Yet he’d taken extra care with the way he dressed that morning, and not half an hour after breakfast, he was bowing to the ladies in the dower house drawing room, Freddie at his side. “May I present my brother, Mr. Frederick Vaughan? Freddie, this is Lady Radbourne and her sister, Miss Douglass.”
Freddie executed a bow—a surprisingly smooth and courtly one. He had elegant manners when he made the effort. “How do you do, Lady Radbourne?” He tendered a second bow to her sister. “How do you do, Miss Douglass?”
Once again, the countess looked decidedly unlike a femme fatale. She was dressed in the unbroken black of mourning, with a black net fichu filling in the low neckline of her long-sleeved gown. The sober hue only emphasized the milk-whiteness of her flawless skin and the vivid green of her eyes. She wore her shining chestnut hair swept up in a Psyche knot, though a few wayward curls had managed to escape.
She acknowledged Freddie with a slight inclination of her head. “Mr. Vaughan.”
Win ran his eyes over her from head to toe. Was it his imagination, or was there a certain wariness in her posture, a wariness he hadn’t observed the day before? She seemed...reserved? Uneasy? Win hoped she wasn’t embarrassed about her fainting spell the day before.
She glanced in his direction, and he quickly directed a smile at her sister so she wouldn’t suspect he’d been staring.
Freddie, too, was smiling at Miss Douglass. “Win tells me your Christian name is Cassandra. I have a pigeon with that name.”
At the flash of confusion that crossed her face, Win hastened to explain. “My brother raises racing pigeons.”
“Yes,” Freddie said, “but my Cassandra isn’t a racer, she’s a dropper.”
Miss Douglass gave him a look of polite inquiry. “A dropper?”
“A docile pigeon that doesn’t fly well, to encourage my racers to return to the loft. At present I have four droppers, all broad tail shakers—Cassandra, Agamemnon, Galatea and Pygmalion.”
“Ah.” Miss Douglass wore a faintly bemused expression.
“You would like them. They’re beautiful white birds with a full breast and a fine spreading tail reminiscent of a turkey cock’s. Both the hen and the cock alike can erect the tail, though the cocks’ tails tend to be slightly larger.”
Miss Douglass turned faintly pink, and Win resisted the urge to give his brother an elbow in the ribs. Freddie was bright enough, and not at all bad looking. Why couldn’t he, just once, carry on a normal conversation? Why did it always have to be pigeons—and not just pigeons, but whatever indelicate detail about them popped into his head? He’d spoken all of four or five sentences to the girl, and already she could tell he was peculiar. It vexed Win, because while Freddie frequently drew interested looks from young ladies, few troubled to talk to him long enough to appreciate his many sterling qualities—his kind heart, for instance, and his unflagging loyalty. “Perhaps we might discuss something else for the present, Freddie.”
“If you like.”
“I came to assure myself that the workman I sent
“My Cassandra is white with a fine full breast—”
“I’d advise you not to compare your Cassandra to Miss Douglass on every score,” Win broke in, “at least not within Miss Douglass’s hearing. Ladies tend to take that sort of thing amiss.”
“Ah, so that’s what ‘comparisons are odious’ means. I had no idea it was unique to ladies.”
“Not unique to them, but...just refrain from doing it.”
Shaving that morning, Win had decided it didn’t much matter what he thought of Lady Radbourne, since he was leaving in a week. Months from now, either the countess’s baby would disinherit him and he’d remain at Hamble Grange, endeavoring to pay off the mortgage there, or she’d give birth to a girl, in which case he’d return to find her resenting him for stepping into her husband’s shoes.
Yet he’d taken extra care with the way he dressed that morning, and not half an hour after breakfast, he was bowing to the ladies in the dower house drawing room, Freddie at his side. “May I present my brother, Mr. Frederick Vaughan? Freddie, this is Lady Radbourne and her sister, Miss Douglass.”
Freddie executed a bow—a surprisingly smooth and courtly one. He had elegant manners when he made the effort. “How do you do, Lady Radbourne?” He tendered a second bow to her sister. “How do you do, Miss Douglass?”
Once again, the countess looked decidedly unlike a femme fatale. She was dressed in the unbroken black of mourning, with a black net fichu filling in the low neckline of her long-sleeved gown. The sober hue only emphasized the milk-whiteness of her flawless skin and the vivid green of her eyes. She wore her shining chestnut hair swept up in a Psyche knot, though a few wayward curls had managed to escape.
She acknowledged Freddie with a slight inclination of her head. “Mr. Vaughan.”
Win ran his eyes over her from head to toe. Was it his imagination, or was there a certain wariness in her posture, a wariness he hadn’t observed the day before? She seemed...reserved? Uneasy? Win hoped she wasn’t embarrassed about her fainting spell the day before.
She glanced in his direction, and he quickly directed a smile at her sister so she wouldn’t suspect he’d been staring.
Freddie, too, was smiling at Miss Douglass. “Win tells me your Christian name is Cassandra. I have a pigeon with that name.”
At the flash of confusion that crossed her face, Win hastened to explain. “My brother raises racing pigeons.”
“Yes,” Freddie said, “but my Cassandra isn’t a racer, she’s a dropper.”
Miss Douglass gave him a look of polite inquiry. “A dropper?”
“A docile pigeon that doesn’t fly well, to encourage my racers to return to the loft. At present I have four droppers, all broad tail shakers—Cassandra, Agamemnon, Galatea and Pygmalion.”
“Ah.” Miss Douglass wore a faintly bemused expression.
“You would like them. They’re beautiful white birds with a full breast and a fine spreading tail reminiscent of a turkey cock’s. Both the hen and the cock alike can erect the tail, though the cocks’ tails tend to be slightly larger.”
Miss Douglass turned faintly pink, and Win resisted the urge to give his brother an elbow in the ribs. Freddie was bright enough, and not at all bad looking. Why couldn’t he, just once, carry on a normal conversation? Why did it always have to be pigeons—and not just pigeons, but whatever indelicate detail about them popped into his head? He’d spoken all of four or five sentences to the girl, and already she could tell he was peculiar. It vexed Win, because while Freddie frequently drew interested looks from young ladies, few troubled to talk to him long enough to appreciate his many sterling qualities—his kind heart, for instance, and his unflagging loyalty. “Perhaps we might discuss something else for the present, Freddie.”
“If you like.”
“I came to assure myself that the workman I sent
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