Maggie MacKeever Read Free

it! I’ve decided it’s time I put it to the touch. Not that I expect my hopes to be cut up!”
    With an ironic expression reminiscent of her father, Miss Clough contemplated the hopeful young man. Very worthy young Lord Sweetbriar was of contemplation, moreover—for Miss Clough’s accostor was none other than Lady Sweetbriar’s stepson Rolf, who as a result of her papa’s entanglement with his stepmama was prone to regard Miss Clough as a companion in adversity. “What is it?” he inquired, attempting to similarly contemplate himself, and very nearly doing himself serious injury with his excessive shirt points. “Have I a smudge? Not a loose thread!”
    “No, no!” soothed Miss Clough. “You are the very pink of perfection, Rolf.”
    In response to this compliment, Lord Sweetbriar lowered his chin into the folds of his snowy cravat, which was tied in that intricate style known as the Gordian Knot, and looked smug. That his companion spoke no more than the truth, Rolf knew. In matters sartorial, he considered himself without peer. And though there may have been those in Oxford Street that day who might quibble with his lordship’s high opinion of himself, few could deny the effectiveness of his current ensemble—a Jean de Bry coat with high stand-up collar, and sleeves gathered and padded at the shoulder to give a “kick-up” effect; light pantaloons of knit stockinet with a pattern of broad stripes; calf-high hussar buckskins, and a waterproof silk hat.
    But though his opinion of himself was nice, Lord Sweetbriar was not immune to the insecurities which prey upon young lovers: “Tell me, Clytie, is it absolutely necessary that I go down upon one knee?” he nervously inquired.
    Miss Clough, whose thoughts had wandered to the errands which had brought her to Oxford Street, looked extremely startled at the notion that Lord Sweetbriar might thus comport himself. “Whatever are you talking about, Rolf? Go down on your knee, indeed! I should hope you will not!”
    “No?” Lord Sweetbriar appeared unconvinced. “I thought that’s the way the thing is done. A fellow gets down on his knees and pops the question—but if you say I shouldn’t, then I shan’t! To own the truth, I’d just as soon not make a cake of myself,”
    Generously Miss Clough refrained from pointing out that horizontally striped unmentionables were not prudent garb for a gentleman wishful of avoiding undue notice. Narrowly she regarded Rolf. Though eclipsed by the grandeur of his garb, Lord Sweetbriar’s features were passably pleasant; and his figure, though at two-and-twenty already tending toward embonpoint, could cause no maiden offense. “So you will offer for Lady Regina Foliot? I wish you joy,” she mused. “But if you are in doubt as to how to go about the business, you should apply to Nikki, not to me.”
    A very self-centered young man, Lord Sweetbriar did not pause to reflect upon Miss Clough’s tacit admission that she was not in the habit of receiving professions of eternal devotion and other romantical high flights. “Apply to Nikki!” he echoed bitterly. “Yes, so she may send me off again with a flea in my ear. You will be very sorry if you allow this marriage to take place, as I have told you before.”
    “If you do not wish to marry, then you must not, Rolf.” Miss Clough looked very innocent. “But I fail to understand why, if you don’t wish to marry, you have been asking me whether one should or should not fall down upon one knee. And what have I to do with it, anyway?”
    “You? Why, nothing!” Lord Sweetbriar’s unremarkable features were flushed. “Are you bamming me again, Clytie? You should not, you know. Dashed if I know why you refuse to give your papa my advice.”
    As Miss Clough contemplated the probable reaction of her parent to Lord Sweetbriar’s warnings, she wore a slight ironic smile. Not only in outlook did Clytie resemble her father. She also shared the aristocratic family features,