from his back and the knob of a walking stick protruding from his coat neck, he didn’t appear seriously harmed until he turned around. This time, Blanche couldn’t bite back a gasp of laughter at the lady’s red sash replacing his usually pristine white cravat. How in the world had Michael come across that sash? She’d thought it safely in her wardrobe with the gown to which it belonged.
She didn’t have much time to muffle her giggles before Allendale and Benington came face to face and stared at one another in incredulity.
“What the devil are you wearing on your neck, Bennie?” Allendale asked peevishly.
Benington snatched at the back of his neck, seeking the object prodding him between his shoulder blades. Grabbing the knob and pulling, he gave Allendale a stare of disbelief. “ My neck! What is that dangling from your collar? An ostrich feather? And what do you mean coming into a lady’s presence with your cravat like that? I swear...”
Blanche’s peal of laughter swiveled both men in her direction. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes watered, and she nearly bent double in her attempt to contain her chortles. If Michael had hoped to assuage her grief while telling her suitors they were unwanted, he’d succeeded.
The ostrich feather swayed over Allendale’s eye, and the ostentatious pocket watch chose that moment to play its merry chimes. Even Blanche’s maid bit back a grin, and the butler covered his mouth, hiding his mirth. Allendale and Benington looked at each other again as if questioning the sanity of the house’s inhabitants.
“Ummm, that nosegay looks a little wilted, Allendale,” Benington observed a trifle doubtfully.
“What nosegay? I...” Glancing down, his lordship pulled the wilted roses from his pocket, then frantically searched for the watch that he could hear but which didn’t rest in its place of honor. “My watch! Where’s my watch?” When the giggling maid pointed at Benington’s back, he swung the other man around and cried out loud. “My watch! What the devil...?”
Both men caught on at once, swinging around to glare at Michael. Blanche erupted in another gale of giggles when she realized Michael, naturally, was nowhere in the vicinity.
“Oh, please. Oh, please...” She couldn’t get the words out through her laughter. “There’s a mirror in the parlor, so you may straighten yourselves out. Please forgive him. He thought I needed a jester today.” She pointed at the room on her left, covering her mouth again as a soft tenor singing an Irish ballad drifted from the hallways above. Michael hadn’t left then, just conveniently misplaced himself.
She was going to kill him, if she didn’t die laughing first.
Eleven
By the time Blanche had Benington and Allendale straightened out and laughing with her, Michael had divested himself of his black mourning coat and breeches. After her old friends had departed, he strolled in wearing an immaculate gray scissor-tailed coat and neatly pressed trousers. He’d tamed his hair into some semblance of order and wore a frilled cravat rivaling any the Beau might have worn in his day.
Blanche eyed the emerald stickpin with suspicion, but since Neville seldom wore jewelry, and she suspected Michael never owned jewelry of any kind, she couldn’t be certain of its origins.
The fleeting illusions with which he disguised himself and distracted others reminded her of the time after the fire, a time when she thought herself lost and alone, with Michael the only certainty in her world. She didn’t like being reminded of her helplessness. She was much stronger now. She could resist Michael’s wiles this time. If she felt like it.
He leaned against the closed door, crossing his arms and inadvertently revealing more muscles than most gentlemen. Awareness of his physical proximity unsettled her.
“You had no reason to treat Benington and Allendale like idiots,” she admonished.
“One must treat idiots like sane men?” Michael
She didn’t have much time to muffle her giggles before Allendale and Benington came face to face and stared at one another in incredulity.
“What the devil are you wearing on your neck, Bennie?” Allendale asked peevishly.
Benington snatched at the back of his neck, seeking the object prodding him between his shoulder blades. Grabbing the knob and pulling, he gave Allendale a stare of disbelief. “ My neck! What is that dangling from your collar? An ostrich feather? And what do you mean coming into a lady’s presence with your cravat like that? I swear...”
Blanche’s peal of laughter swiveled both men in her direction. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes watered, and she nearly bent double in her attempt to contain her chortles. If Michael had hoped to assuage her grief while telling her suitors they were unwanted, he’d succeeded.
The ostrich feather swayed over Allendale’s eye, and the ostentatious pocket watch chose that moment to play its merry chimes. Even Blanche’s maid bit back a grin, and the butler covered his mouth, hiding his mirth. Allendale and Benington looked at each other again as if questioning the sanity of the house’s inhabitants.
“Ummm, that nosegay looks a little wilted, Allendale,” Benington observed a trifle doubtfully.
“What nosegay? I...” Glancing down, his lordship pulled the wilted roses from his pocket, then frantically searched for the watch that he could hear but which didn’t rest in its place of honor. “My watch! Where’s my watch?” When the giggling maid pointed at Benington’s back, he swung the other man around and cried out loud. “My watch! What the devil...?”
Both men caught on at once, swinging around to glare at Michael. Blanche erupted in another gale of giggles when she realized Michael, naturally, was nowhere in the vicinity.
“Oh, please. Oh, please...” She couldn’t get the words out through her laughter. “There’s a mirror in the parlor, so you may straighten yourselves out. Please forgive him. He thought I needed a jester today.” She pointed at the room on her left, covering her mouth again as a soft tenor singing an Irish ballad drifted from the hallways above. Michael hadn’t left then, just conveniently misplaced himself.
She was going to kill him, if she didn’t die laughing first.
Eleven
By the time Blanche had Benington and Allendale straightened out and laughing with her, Michael had divested himself of his black mourning coat and breeches. After her old friends had departed, he strolled in wearing an immaculate gray scissor-tailed coat and neatly pressed trousers. He’d tamed his hair into some semblance of order and wore a frilled cravat rivaling any the Beau might have worn in his day.
Blanche eyed the emerald stickpin with suspicion, but since Neville seldom wore jewelry, and she suspected Michael never owned jewelry of any kind, she couldn’t be certain of its origins.
The fleeting illusions with which he disguised himself and distracted others reminded her of the time after the fire, a time when she thought herself lost and alone, with Michael the only certainty in her world. She didn’t like being reminded of her helplessness. She was much stronger now. She could resist Michael’s wiles this time. If she felt like it.
He leaned against the closed door, crossing his arms and inadvertently revealing more muscles than most gentlemen. Awareness of his physical proximity unsettled her.
“You had no reason to treat Benington and Allendale like idiots,” she admonished.
“One must treat idiots like sane men?” Michael
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