wit’s end.
“Stuff and nonsense!” Lily bounced off the chaise longue and patted down her second-best walking dress of azure lawn. “It is perfectly obvious that we have ‘taken.’ Perhaps we shall be as famous as the Gunning sisters!”
Mrs. Bartlett looked bemused. Faint rumors were circulating in the kitchens but she hadn’t the heart to depress Lily’s irrepressible spirits. Still, she would be hopelessly remiss if she permitted her to have a tête-à-tête with one of the most gazetted fortune hunters of the Season.
“I should send him away, Miss Lily. It is not fitting that he should meet with you unchaperoned. Wait for Miss Primrose to return. She shall know what to do!”
“But she will be an age! If she went to Hookhams she will be there forever! You know how long she takes to select a book! I never have that problem, for there is always a juicy Gothic at hand, or at the very least a second volume of something.”
This logic may have been incomprehensible to the housekeeper, but it made perfectly good sense to Lily, who never, never got beyond a first volume of anything.
Mrs. Bartlett stood firm. “She will not be long, for she only ordered up the curricle and the skies are darkening. She would not risk Daisy catching cold in a passing shower. Mr. Stanridge can wait. If your eyes are indeed like gem pools—whatever they may be—they will undoubtedly be worth kicking his heels for.”
Lily at once saw the sense in this, remarking that it was very romantic indeed that poor Mr. Stanridge had to suffer so. Mrs. Bartlett declined the tart rejoinder that more likely Mr. Stanridge was suffering from indigestion. The manner in which he had wolfed down her cream tarts had been reprehensible bordering on rude. Still, it was what one could expect from a fortune hunter with not a farthing to fly with. No doubt he had missed his dinner.
“What else was he saying?”
“About your eyes?”
“Oh, about anything! Did he mention my cheekbones? I put a dash of color on them yesterday . . .”
“Miss Lily!” The housekeeper was shocked. Nevertheless, she was kindhearted enough to mention that Mr. Stanridge had spouted at length about “crimson lips with the hallowed sheen of overripe berries,” a dubious metaphor that appeared to send Lily into transports. Mrs. Bartlett sighed as she looked at the ormolu clock on the mantel. It was fine time Miss Primrose was home.
Lord Armand Valmont glanced skyward and frowned. Undoubtedly it would rain, and whilst he did not in the least mind getting soaked to the skin, the sky was darkening and the paths he intended to cross were misting up so that he could see almost nothing of the rolling green hills and sandy paths that guided his way.
He would have to stop at the White Dragon and seek shelter, for it was useless getting lost upon the Westenbury moors. His arrival home would simply have to wait. He tugged soothingly at the reigns and coaxed his midnight stallion round. The sky was flashing ominously and he feared a sudden lightning storm. Dancer was already beginning to whinny softly, her nostrils flaring for danger.
White mists seemed to descend from nowhere, almost—but not quite-obscuring an oncoming carriage in the distance. Lord Valmont very quick-mindedly stepped onto the turf. He had had the advantage of seeing the curricle, but he was not certain, by its speed, that the reverse was true. Moments later, his misgivings were justified as the little tilbury sped out of control and lost a front wheel.
“Bother!”
The sound was as clear as a bell and, rather surprisingly for this area, feminine.
My lord was just contemplating making his presence known when a second, equally delightful—and just as feminine—tone was heard to reply.
“Do you think we have lost him?”
“Oh, undoubtedly! What a churlish fellow! I wonder which one of us he meant to abduct?”
“Oh, undoubtedly both! Poor man—he must have his flowers confused. He kept