Read Online The Orchid Affair by Lauren Willig - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Willig
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Romance, Historical, Espionage, Regency, Regency Fiction, Romantic Suspense Fiction, Governesses, spy stories, Women spies
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Gabrielle. “You poked me!”
“Did not!” Pierre-André was the picture of outraged innocence. Until he poked her again.
Laura came hurtling back from 1784. She wasn’t twelve years old anymore, trailing along in the wake of her parents from bookshop to atelier. She was a thirty-two-year-old governess and the proprietor was giving her the sort of look reserved for people who bring dangerous livestock onto the premises.
“Gentlemen,” she said severely, relocating Pierre-André to her other side, “do not poke their sisters.”
Pierre-André pouted. “But—”
“People who poke are little better than savages, and savages Do Not Get Books. Am I understood? Come on,” Laura said, taking Pierre-André by the hand. “Let’s see what we can find for you. Maybe the proprietor will have something to recommend.”
“Look! Look!” Pierre-André tugged, yanking her towards a book propped open on a stand. A black-and-white illustration portrayed an enraged Hercules whopping away at the heads of the hydra. The hydra looked justifiably alarmed.
Behind them, cold air gusted into the shop as the door opened, admitting another customer.
“If you behave, you can have it,” Laura bribed him shamelessly, propelling him towards the counter and the clerk, determined to get there first, before the new customer could beat her out.
Pierre-André seized his advantage. “Can I have sweets, too?”
The newcomer wafted his way down the narrow aisle, his head tilted at an angle that implied that he was in the process of listening to divine voices that sang only to him. He came down to earth long enough to wave a languid hand at Pierre-André. “This shop purveys celestial sweets, dear boy. The sweets of … learning!”
He was garbed with that deliberate air of dishabille that proclaims the artist the world over. Despite the cold, he wore no jacket, only a waistcoat over his flowing white shirt, and a rough cravat knotted at the neck.
Pierre-André was looking perturbed again. “Are those like candied almonds?”
The poet—he could only be a poet—pressed two fine-boned hands to his chest. “Better than almonds, my lively lad. In these Elysian fields one can sup on the sugared nuggets of choicest poesy.”
All but concealed behind a display of books, Gabrielle rolled her eyes. Laura heartily concurred.
Pierre-André ignored Elysian fields and went straight to the important bit. “I want nuggets of posy,” he demanded. “Sugary ones.”
Laura wanted a cup of tea. Brewed black, milk, no sugar.
“In a minute,” she said, but it was already too late. The poet had ranged himself in front of the counter. He had, she realized indignantly, cut her out. She tried tapping her foot, but the poet was oblivious.
He was more likely smoking the sugary fields of Elysium than supping on them, thought Laura bitterly. The Left Bank hadn’t changed much since her parents’ day.
“What have you today for me ”—the man paused dramatically, swishing his sleeves for emphasis—“in terms of poe tree ?”
Laura contemplated a swift kick to the knee . Preferably times three .
The shopkeeper reached beneath the counter and drew out a slim book bound in cheap paper covers. “You might want to try this, Monsieur Whittlesby. It’s the latest from Porcelier.”
“That rubbish!” An exuberant gesture sent a full yard of white linen sleeve swooping over Pierre-André’s head. Pierre-André ducked and giggled. “The man has no feeling for the rhythm of the language, for the tripping trot of enjambed feet as they prance down that pulchritudinous path of poesy over which only the muse may rule as mistress.” The speech was made all the more impressive by the fact that the poet managed to utter it without once pausing for breath.
The shopkeeper eyed him dispassionately. “Shall I put it on your account as always, Monsieur Whittlesby?”
The poet tucked the book up beneath one flowing sleeve, where it disappeared among the
“Did not!” Pierre-André was the picture of outraged innocence. Until he poked her again.
Laura came hurtling back from 1784. She wasn’t twelve years old anymore, trailing along in the wake of her parents from bookshop to atelier. She was a thirty-two-year-old governess and the proprietor was giving her the sort of look reserved for people who bring dangerous livestock onto the premises.
“Gentlemen,” she said severely, relocating Pierre-André to her other side, “do not poke their sisters.”
Pierre-André pouted. “But—”
“People who poke are little better than savages, and savages Do Not Get Books. Am I understood? Come on,” Laura said, taking Pierre-André by the hand. “Let’s see what we can find for you. Maybe the proprietor will have something to recommend.”
“Look! Look!” Pierre-André tugged, yanking her towards a book propped open on a stand. A black-and-white illustration portrayed an enraged Hercules whopping away at the heads of the hydra. The hydra looked justifiably alarmed.
Behind them, cold air gusted into the shop as the door opened, admitting another customer.
“If you behave, you can have it,” Laura bribed him shamelessly, propelling him towards the counter and the clerk, determined to get there first, before the new customer could beat her out.
Pierre-André seized his advantage. “Can I have sweets, too?”
The newcomer wafted his way down the narrow aisle, his head tilted at an angle that implied that he was in the process of listening to divine voices that sang only to him. He came down to earth long enough to wave a languid hand at Pierre-André. “This shop purveys celestial sweets, dear boy. The sweets of … learning!”
He was garbed with that deliberate air of dishabille that proclaims the artist the world over. Despite the cold, he wore no jacket, only a waistcoat over his flowing white shirt, and a rough cravat knotted at the neck.
Pierre-André was looking perturbed again. “Are those like candied almonds?”
The poet—he could only be a poet—pressed two fine-boned hands to his chest. “Better than almonds, my lively lad. In these Elysian fields one can sup on the sugared nuggets of choicest poesy.”
All but concealed behind a display of books, Gabrielle rolled her eyes. Laura heartily concurred.
Pierre-André ignored Elysian fields and went straight to the important bit. “I want nuggets of posy,” he demanded. “Sugary ones.”
Laura wanted a cup of tea. Brewed black, milk, no sugar.
“In a minute,” she said, but it was already too late. The poet had ranged himself in front of the counter. He had, she realized indignantly, cut her out. She tried tapping her foot, but the poet was oblivious.
He was more likely smoking the sugary fields of Elysium than supping on them, thought Laura bitterly. The Left Bank hadn’t changed much since her parents’ day.
“What have you today for me ”—the man paused dramatically, swishing his sleeves for emphasis—“in terms of poe tree ?”
Laura contemplated a swift kick to the knee . Preferably times three .
The shopkeeper reached beneath the counter and drew out a slim book bound in cheap paper covers. “You might want to try this, Monsieur Whittlesby. It’s the latest from Porcelier.”
“That rubbish!” An exuberant gesture sent a full yard of white linen sleeve swooping over Pierre-André’s head. Pierre-André ducked and giggled. “The man has no feeling for the rhythm of the language, for the tripping trot of enjambed feet as they prance down that pulchritudinous path of poesy over which only the muse may rule as mistress.” The speech was made all the more impressive by the fact that the poet managed to utter it without once pausing for breath.
The shopkeeper eyed him dispassionately. “Shall I put it on your account as always, Monsieur Whittlesby?”
The poet tucked the book up beneath one flowing sleeve, where it disappeared among the
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