roof.
Pointless to wonder who would keep her safe from him.
Where was Quin? Kate had not seen him for some time. It seemed almost as if he was avoiding her. And who could blame him, were that true? Kate either assaulted or insulted the man each time they met.
One of the dealers demonstrated how to make a deck of cards march up her arm and down again. Politely, Kate smiled.
“If you want people to believe you are my inamorata, you will have to do better,” Beau scolded. “My inamoratas are never bored.”
That, Kate could well believe. “I am not used to being the cynosure of all eyes.”
“You may blame your neckline,” Beau said bluntly. “Not that the rest of you isn’t equally sublime. I myself was struck speechless. You are in high bloom.”
“I am unveiled, you mean.”
“You are bait. Now, where was I? Ah, yes! I was being thrown into a transport of passion. If not struck entirely speechless, at least head over heels.”
Despite her discomfort, Kate’s lips twitched. “You needn’t try and flimflam me.”
“But I must. It is expected.” Beau raised her hand to his lips. “To continue: I am smitten. I should have seen it before. But you have been hiding your light beneath a barrel.” His eyes twinkled. “As it were.”
Kate couldn’t help herself; she laughed. “What’s most shocking in all this is that I’m almost tempted to believe you.”
Beau grinned. “Well, yes. I am quite good.”
“You should laugh more often, Kate. It suits you,” said Quin, at her elbow. “However, I suggest you try and remember why you’re here.” Kate swung round to protest but he had turned from her and was strolling through the crowd.
“I’m good,” repeated Beau, reclaiming her attention, “but I beg you won’t believe me. Quin has killed his man three times in a duel. I do not care to make a fourth.”
Over which forgotten females had those duels been fought? There could be no question but that females had been involved. “I doubt he would feel compelled to defend my honor,” Kate replied, all amusement fled.
“I don’t think honor is a consideration, when it comes to Quin.” Raised voices broke into their conversation. Two women — one fair, one dark, wearing modish gowns and identical irate expressions — were bearing down on them.
“Mrs. Thwaite and Mrs. Ormsby,” sighed Beau. “I suspect they have heard I am dressing, and therefore most likely also undressing, another female; and have consequently suffered a revulsion of feeling so profound there is nothing for it but they must tell me so.” There was no time for further explanations. The ladies were upon them.
Beau was correct; they had much to say. ‘Curst rum touch’ was mentioned, and ‘coxcomb’ (to which Beau took exception), as well as ‘worm’ and ‘cur’. Mrs. Ormsby lamented that she had been treated in so cavalier a fashion; Mrs. Thwaite expressed great disappointment that the object of her affections should behave so shabbily; both ladies agreed that whatever Mr. Loversall may have been in his grasstime, he was a cod’s head now. Moreover, he was a worse profligate than even the Black Baron, because the Black Baron broke only one heart at a time.
Beau listened, politely, until they paused for breath, at which point he remarked the ladies had known from the beginning that he was the most faithless creature in creation, so why in Hades were they kicking up such a dust?
As Mrs. Thwaite and Mrs. Ormsby erupted with further indignation, Kate escaped to the supper room, where she sank down gratefully on a chair. After so long standing, her lame leg ached. There were two suppers served each evening — tonight’s fare a substantial repast of cold chicken, joint and salad; sherry, brandy, and the like — but the room was empty save for the servants passing through the discrete doorway that led to the nether realms of the house. Kate set down her champagne glass, hoping for a few uninterrupted moments in
Pointless to wonder who would keep her safe from him.
Where was Quin? Kate had not seen him for some time. It seemed almost as if he was avoiding her. And who could blame him, were that true? Kate either assaulted or insulted the man each time they met.
One of the dealers demonstrated how to make a deck of cards march up her arm and down again. Politely, Kate smiled.
“If you want people to believe you are my inamorata, you will have to do better,” Beau scolded. “My inamoratas are never bored.”
That, Kate could well believe. “I am not used to being the cynosure of all eyes.”
“You may blame your neckline,” Beau said bluntly. “Not that the rest of you isn’t equally sublime. I myself was struck speechless. You are in high bloom.”
“I am unveiled, you mean.”
“You are bait. Now, where was I? Ah, yes! I was being thrown into a transport of passion. If not struck entirely speechless, at least head over heels.”
Despite her discomfort, Kate’s lips twitched. “You needn’t try and flimflam me.”
“But I must. It is expected.” Beau raised her hand to his lips. “To continue: I am smitten. I should have seen it before. But you have been hiding your light beneath a barrel.” His eyes twinkled. “As it were.”
Kate couldn’t help herself; she laughed. “What’s most shocking in all this is that I’m almost tempted to believe you.”
Beau grinned. “Well, yes. I am quite good.”
“You should laugh more often, Kate. It suits you,” said Quin, at her elbow. “However, I suggest you try and remember why you’re here.” Kate swung round to protest but he had turned from her and was strolling through the crowd.
“I’m good,” repeated Beau, reclaiming her attention, “but I beg you won’t believe me. Quin has killed his man three times in a duel. I do not care to make a fourth.”
Over which forgotten females had those duels been fought? There could be no question but that females had been involved. “I doubt he would feel compelled to defend my honor,” Kate replied, all amusement fled.
“I don’t think honor is a consideration, when it comes to Quin.” Raised voices broke into their conversation. Two women — one fair, one dark, wearing modish gowns and identical irate expressions — were bearing down on them.
“Mrs. Thwaite and Mrs. Ormsby,” sighed Beau. “I suspect they have heard I am dressing, and therefore most likely also undressing, another female; and have consequently suffered a revulsion of feeling so profound there is nothing for it but they must tell me so.” There was no time for further explanations. The ladies were upon them.
Beau was correct; they had much to say. ‘Curst rum touch’ was mentioned, and ‘coxcomb’ (to which Beau took exception), as well as ‘worm’ and ‘cur’. Mrs. Ormsby lamented that she had been treated in so cavalier a fashion; Mrs. Thwaite expressed great disappointment that the object of her affections should behave so shabbily; both ladies agreed that whatever Mr. Loversall may have been in his grasstime, he was a cod’s head now. Moreover, he was a worse profligate than even the Black Baron, because the Black Baron broke only one heart at a time.
Beau listened, politely, until they paused for breath, at which point he remarked the ladies had known from the beginning that he was the most faithless creature in creation, so why in Hades were they kicking up such a dust?
As Mrs. Thwaite and Mrs. Ormsby erupted with further indignation, Kate escaped to the supper room, where she sank down gratefully on a chair. After so long standing, her lame leg ached. There were two suppers served each evening — tonight’s fare a substantial repast of cold chicken, joint and salad; sherry, brandy, and the like — but the room was empty save for the servants passing through the discrete doorway that led to the nether realms of the house. Kate set down her champagne glass, hoping for a few uninterrupted moments in
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