the two men with wide, shocked eyes.
Some quick thinking, and Richard did the only thing he could. He let loose a bout of friendly laughter and wiggled his eyebrows. “Oh, yes!” He guffawed. “To Dorlet’s, straightaway! I suppose you heard all about that escapade that Farnsworth got himself involved in? Damn pup should know when he’s had too much brandy.”
Richard had indeed heard the comical story about Farnsworth and his accidental arrival at Madam Dorlet’s brothel. London society was, after all, terribly insular.
Bolling and Sir William’s expressions relaxed in an instant. They laughed and related their own knowledge of the Farnsworth story, still entertaining even after a few weeks of telling. During it all, Richard held Shaw with a dangerous glare. The damn fool! Arrogant, sneering little bastard! He had never done anything to Shaw, never had any kind of row with the man, and yet that did not appear to matter. Shaw just seemed to be the type of man who enjoyed being nasty for its own sake.
Shaw rubbed his coat sleeve across his brow, then pulled his horse back. “It was good meeting up with you gentlemen, but I must be off as well. I was pushing an appointment by going for a ride at all.”
Richard touched his crop to his hat brim in farewell, careful that neither Bolling nor Sir William left with any negative impressions. It would not do for it to get around that Richard disliked Shaw, for feuds always led to questions, which led to prying. Sir William and Bolling gave Shaw their salutes as he turned his horse and headed off. Richard was glad to see him go.
“I say, Avery, I received an invitation to your sister’s come-out ball this Thursday,” said Sir William. “I expect it to be an impressive squeeze.”
“No doubt,” Richard said flatly. His mind was not on the ball and was certainly not on either of the two men before him. His thoughts were still hopelessly on Henry. If he turned now and let his horse loose, perhaps he might catch up to him yet. But damn all! He had just said moments before that he was heading south.
Disappointment gripped him. A few more pleasantries were exchanged; then the group parted ways. Richard continued south in the direction he had come, feeling sick to his stomach, like a clumsy man who had just dropped a great treasure into deep waters.
* * * *
Lady Anne was sitting in the window at Gunter’s Tea Shop. A dainty silver bowl of raspberry-flavored ice sat before her, and she prodded at it with her spoon now and again. Her thoughts rested nowhere in particular but were merely consumed with a general anxiety over the upcoming ball. She had been trained all her life to be a perfect lady by an army of nurses, governesses, and highly paid tutors. The end result was a resounding success by any standards. Anne was everything a well-polished daughter and sister of a duke should be. Her only faults, if one was willing to call them such, was that she read novels and she dreamed.
At that moment, to give herself some tiny bit of escape, she allowed her thoughts to drift into one of the ornate dream worlds that she had concocted for herself.
This particular one featured a beautiful poet, an artist of unspeakable sensitivity and wit, much like Wordsworth, only not as old and grumpy. He would write beautiful love poetry to her that would set the literary word alight, and all the fawning ladies in the literary salons would have no idea that the poems were about her , little Lady Anne Avery, for the words themselves would conjure up images of the most enticing courtesan.
Despite her dainty beauty and perfection of manner, Anne did not think much of herself. She thought she was too small and slim, like a child. She longed to look like Lady Grendel, with her voluptuous figure and riot of raven-black curls. In Anne’s dreams, her romantic heroes would always chase such women but, upon seeing her, would suddenly realize that they had never really wanted them at all. They
Some quick thinking, and Richard did the only thing he could. He let loose a bout of friendly laughter and wiggled his eyebrows. “Oh, yes!” He guffawed. “To Dorlet’s, straightaway! I suppose you heard all about that escapade that Farnsworth got himself involved in? Damn pup should know when he’s had too much brandy.”
Richard had indeed heard the comical story about Farnsworth and his accidental arrival at Madam Dorlet’s brothel. London society was, after all, terribly insular.
Bolling and Sir William’s expressions relaxed in an instant. They laughed and related their own knowledge of the Farnsworth story, still entertaining even after a few weeks of telling. During it all, Richard held Shaw with a dangerous glare. The damn fool! Arrogant, sneering little bastard! He had never done anything to Shaw, never had any kind of row with the man, and yet that did not appear to matter. Shaw just seemed to be the type of man who enjoyed being nasty for its own sake.
Shaw rubbed his coat sleeve across his brow, then pulled his horse back. “It was good meeting up with you gentlemen, but I must be off as well. I was pushing an appointment by going for a ride at all.”
Richard touched his crop to his hat brim in farewell, careful that neither Bolling nor Sir William left with any negative impressions. It would not do for it to get around that Richard disliked Shaw, for feuds always led to questions, which led to prying. Sir William and Bolling gave Shaw their salutes as he turned his horse and headed off. Richard was glad to see him go.
“I say, Avery, I received an invitation to your sister’s come-out ball this Thursday,” said Sir William. “I expect it to be an impressive squeeze.”
“No doubt,” Richard said flatly. His mind was not on the ball and was certainly not on either of the two men before him. His thoughts were still hopelessly on Henry. If he turned now and let his horse loose, perhaps he might catch up to him yet. But damn all! He had just said moments before that he was heading south.
Disappointment gripped him. A few more pleasantries were exchanged; then the group parted ways. Richard continued south in the direction he had come, feeling sick to his stomach, like a clumsy man who had just dropped a great treasure into deep waters.
* * * *
Lady Anne was sitting in the window at Gunter’s Tea Shop. A dainty silver bowl of raspberry-flavored ice sat before her, and she prodded at it with her spoon now and again. Her thoughts rested nowhere in particular but were merely consumed with a general anxiety over the upcoming ball. She had been trained all her life to be a perfect lady by an army of nurses, governesses, and highly paid tutors. The end result was a resounding success by any standards. Anne was everything a well-polished daughter and sister of a duke should be. Her only faults, if one was willing to call them such, was that she read novels and she dreamed.
At that moment, to give herself some tiny bit of escape, she allowed her thoughts to drift into one of the ornate dream worlds that she had concocted for herself.
This particular one featured a beautiful poet, an artist of unspeakable sensitivity and wit, much like Wordsworth, only not as old and grumpy. He would write beautiful love poetry to her that would set the literary word alight, and all the fawning ladies in the literary salons would have no idea that the poems were about her , little Lady Anne Avery, for the words themselves would conjure up images of the most enticing courtesan.
Despite her dainty beauty and perfection of manner, Anne did not think much of herself. She thought she was too small and slim, like a child. She longed to look like Lady Grendel, with her voluptuous figure and riot of raven-black curls. In Anne’s dreams, her romantic heroes would always chase such women but, upon seeing her, would suddenly realize that they had never really wanted them at all. They
Similar Books
