speak. Since the moment of her recognition of Lord Canby’s fob, other memories had begun to surface— recollections, for example, of a magnificent house with sparkling chandeliers—and there was a tall, laughing man she called “Papa dearest.” Interspersed with these were faint images of another man—perhaps a younger version of the marquess?—upon whose knee she climbed for loving embraces. The time was approaching, she felt, when her identity would be produced from her own mind. Until then . . . She hesitated.
With a glance at his betrothed, Bran interposed. “I rather think the Countess of Branford has a nice ring. We can work out the informal address later. Do you not agree?”
After several moments of stunned silence, the marquess uttered a pleased shout. “Do you mean it, boy? My dear? You would not bamboozle an old man once again!”
“Never again, Grandpapa,” whispered Martha—or Serena—or possibly Felicity.
“I can only tell you this,” Bran declared with great aplomb. “I devoutly hope your next descendant will be a boy—and he will bear the name Stewart Marshall Storm, Viscount Weatherby, heir to the Earl of Branford.”
“What a terrible mouthful to inflict on a helpless infant,” chuckled his beloved.
It was not long before the marquess, quite worn with the events of the day, retired for the night, leaving it up to his friend the earl to deal with whatever protests might further issue on the subject of forthcoming progeny.
All of which were vanquished most successfully, and in a wonderfully effective manner, by the designated father of said progeny.
**
The Wooing of Lord Walford
“Confound it, Sally, is this any way to treat a guest?”
Sarah Berners, the young woman thus addressed, gazed down at the gentleman who spoke so importunately. His dark eyes were intensely alive below a mop of dark hair, arranged in modish carelessness,
“Charlie.” She lifted damp curls from her forehead as she spoke with some asperity from atop a rather wobbly ladder. She had been tending plants in her greenhouse, a sprawling collection of glassed-in buildings, and she had accomplished only half the tasks she had allotted to herself. For half an hour she had been laboring with several pots of maidenhair, set on a high shelf, and the heat and humidity and her uncomfortable position were beginning to take a toll on her temper. “You have been running tame in this house since you were in short coats, so even though you rarely grace the neighborhood with your presence these days, I hardly think I need consider you a guest.”
“But I want to talk to you.” Charles Darracot, the second son of the Earl of Frane possessed a great charm of manner, of which he was only too aware. He stretched a hand to Sally with a coaxing smile, and sighing, she accepted his assistance and slid down to ground level.
Really, it was too bad of Charlie, she thought, with an absence of rancor. She had much to do this morning, and had given strictest orders that she not be disturbed in her sunny haven. Orders, of course, meant nothing to Charlie. She could just picture the persuasive grin he must have projected at Carlisle, reducing the usually austere butler to stammering ineffectually.
“What is it, Charlie?” she asked, removing a clutter of clay pots and trowels from a nearby bench. “I have just started on the arrangements for Lady Winstaunton’s Valentine’s Ball, and there is much to be done.”
“Valentine’s Ball! Good God, we’re hardly into December. Why are you beavering away at Valentine’s Day already?”
“Because,” she replied impatiently, “as you would know if you thought of anything but your own affairs, it always takes months to fill Lady W.’s order. She insists upon masses of dried flowers, as well as the forced fresh, and then there’s the big jars of potpourri she likes to place in every room.” Motioning Charlie to be seated, she settled herself,
With a glance at his betrothed, Bran interposed. “I rather think the Countess of Branford has a nice ring. We can work out the informal address later. Do you not agree?”
After several moments of stunned silence, the marquess uttered a pleased shout. “Do you mean it, boy? My dear? You would not bamboozle an old man once again!”
“Never again, Grandpapa,” whispered Martha—or Serena—or possibly Felicity.
“I can only tell you this,” Bran declared with great aplomb. “I devoutly hope your next descendant will be a boy—and he will bear the name Stewart Marshall Storm, Viscount Weatherby, heir to the Earl of Branford.”
“What a terrible mouthful to inflict on a helpless infant,” chuckled his beloved.
It was not long before the marquess, quite worn with the events of the day, retired for the night, leaving it up to his friend the earl to deal with whatever protests might further issue on the subject of forthcoming progeny.
All of which were vanquished most successfully, and in a wonderfully effective manner, by the designated father of said progeny.
**
The Wooing of Lord Walford
“Confound it, Sally, is this any way to treat a guest?”
Sarah Berners, the young woman thus addressed, gazed down at the gentleman who spoke so importunately. His dark eyes were intensely alive below a mop of dark hair, arranged in modish carelessness,
“Charlie.” She lifted damp curls from her forehead as she spoke with some asperity from atop a rather wobbly ladder. She had been tending plants in her greenhouse, a sprawling collection of glassed-in buildings, and she had accomplished only half the tasks she had allotted to herself. For half an hour she had been laboring with several pots of maidenhair, set on a high shelf, and the heat and humidity and her uncomfortable position were beginning to take a toll on her temper. “You have been running tame in this house since you were in short coats, so even though you rarely grace the neighborhood with your presence these days, I hardly think I need consider you a guest.”
“But I want to talk to you.” Charles Darracot, the second son of the Earl of Frane possessed a great charm of manner, of which he was only too aware. He stretched a hand to Sally with a coaxing smile, and sighing, she accepted his assistance and slid down to ground level.
Really, it was too bad of Charlie, she thought, with an absence of rancor. She had much to do this morning, and had given strictest orders that she not be disturbed in her sunny haven. Orders, of course, meant nothing to Charlie. She could just picture the persuasive grin he must have projected at Carlisle, reducing the usually austere butler to stammering ineffectually.
“What is it, Charlie?” she asked, removing a clutter of clay pots and trowels from a nearby bench. “I have just started on the arrangements for Lady Winstaunton’s Valentine’s Ball, and there is much to be done.”
“Valentine’s Ball! Good God, we’re hardly into December. Why are you beavering away at Valentine’s Day already?”
“Because,” she replied impatiently, “as you would know if you thought of anything but your own affairs, it always takes months to fill Lady W.’s order. She insists upon masses of dried flowers, as well as the forced fresh, and then there’s the big jars of potpourri she likes to place in every room.” Motioning Charlie to be seated, she settled herself,
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