Lovers' Vows Read Free Page A

sighed luxuriously. A smile of satisfaction settled on his lean cheeks. Then he shoved the paper aside and took up his coffee.
    Really a dead bore, the daily papers. When you’d read one you’d read them all. Always a tirade against the government, and usually another against the Prince Regent in this Whig paper. Prices were high and rising daily, the roads were a national disgrace, and one or another of the Royal Family was ill. On the editorial pages there would be an article against the low academic standards pertaining at the universities, the low moral values of the aristocracy, and the high unemployment.
    Really, the world was a demmed bore. He would be happy to get away to the Abbey for a few months and recuperate his spirits. Even if that notice had not appeared in the paper he would have gone. In fact, especially if it had not appeared, he would have gone.
    He picked the Chronicle up once more and reread the item. Lady Congrave was pleased to announce the betrothal of her niece, Lady Alicia Grover, to the Hon. Hanley Healey Smith-Daiches.... Folks would take the shatter-brained idea he was running to hide his grief, when the visit (to say nothing of the betrothal) had been arranged a week before, to escape the lady’s clutches. That was the trouble with women. Flirt with them for a few weeks, and they took the cork-brained idea you wanted to spend the rest of your life with them. Marriage was for fools and clergymen. What man would willingly shackle himself to one woman for the rest of his days, when every Season brought forth a new batch of beauties?
    One month had proved the invariable length of time it took him to become tired of a young lady. One week to learn her tricks, two to admire them, one to become disenchanted. Strange when one came to consider it for, with male friends, the longer you knew them the better you liked them. But with women it was the reverse. There was nothing so fascinating as a new flirt. It was not likely he would find any to his liking at Harknell, in the very heart of Kent, where his Abbey was situated. Should he invite a few along? No, this would be an all-male party, he decided. To be inviting females to one’s ancestral home had a serious air he sought to avoid in his affairs.
    He had invited Luke Altmore for rational conversation; George Foxworth for riding and hunting; old Sir Laurence Digby to amuse his mama; and Rex Homberly, a cousin, had invited himself. He would amuse no one, but never mind. He was a harmless fool. Kings of old were accustomed to have midgets and clowns about them, and Rex filled the dual capacity, being only slightly above five feet in height and an acknowledged idiot. It did not occur to Dewar that he had mentally assigned himself a monarch’s crown in this analogy, nor would it have seemed out of place to him if he had thought of it. He was considered a sort of monarch of society.
    He was disturbed by a scratching sound at the door, as of a cat sharpening its claws. Curious, Dewar arose and went to open his door. There was no cat there, but a stumpy, slightly overweight gentleman with a pink face and bright blue eyes.
    “Morning, Dewar. Mind if I come in?” he asked, and pushed his way past, into the elegant chamber.
    “Why were you scratching at my door? Why did you not knock or, better, await below and have word sent up you were here?” his cousin demanded, never in a terribly good mood before he had finished the ritual of paper and coffee.
    “Did,” Homberly answered with a sniffling sound. “Been waiting half an hour. In a bit of a hurry, Dewar, if you want the truth.”
    “By all means, let us have no evasions,” Dewar answered, in a bored voice.
    Rex sat down at the chair just vacated by his host and began to glance at the paper. As he turned a page, he heedlessly reached out for the cup of coffee and raised it to his lips, while Dewar looked on, first in vexation, finally giving way to resignation, as one always did in the end with