Shall We Dance? by Kasey Michaels

together, they entered the queen’s residence.
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    C LIVE ENTERED the kitchens behind the footmen, blinked against the dimness after the bright sunlight, looked around and dropped his jaw to half-mast (which was fitting, him being a nautical man and all, at least in his clothing).
    â€œMaryann?”
    Maryann Fitzhugh, who had been gathering up cups from the scarred wooden table, turned all at once, the cups dropping to shatter against the stone floor. “Clive? My stars—Clive Rambert!”
    â€œMaryann,” Clive repeated, his soft tone so unlike him that any of the men who’d served with him would have wondered if the man was sickening for something. “How long, Maryann?”
    â€œYears, Clive. Years and years.”
    â€œYer were going ta wait, Maryann.”
    â€œI did, Clive. I waited.”
    â€œMrs. Fitzhugh?” Esther Pidgeon said, entering the room. “I’ve settled my things in my room. Rather small, but it shall do nicely. Mrs. Fitzhugh?”
    â€œMrs. Fitzhugh, Maryann? Is that how yer waited?”
    â€œIt’s not what you think.” Maryann’s face paled. “I had no choice, Clive. You got away. You left.”
    â€œI went ta war, Maryann,” Clive said, slapping his wet hat against his thigh.
    â€œExcuse me,” Esther said. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Fitzhugh?”
    Maryann shook her head. “No, no, Esther. Nothing’s wrong. Clive? You’re all wet.”
    â€œNoticed that, did yer? I coulda been all dead.”
    â€œBut that’s the whole thing. For so long I thought you were.”
    â€œOh, so you two are acquainted? Isn’t that nice. Shall I order…that is…fetch tea?”
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    â€œY OU’RE QUITE SURE you don’t want me to ring for tea?” Amelia asked as she sat on one couch and Perry sat on its twin, which faced it across a low table. “There is, of course, no possibility that you will see the queen today. She is not receiving.”
    â€œMy loss, I am sure,” Perry said, casting his gaze about the drawing room. “Do you suppose there is some way for me to prove that I’ve at least been here?”
    Amelia blinked at him. “You want to take something of the queen’s?”
    â€œIn point of fact, yes. I should like to take you, Miss Fredericks, for a drive in the Park. Tomorrow at five, in time for the Promenade?”
    â€œAt which time you’d have your fellow bettor hidden behind a tree, to see us drive by, therefore proving that you have won your monkey?”
    â€œAnd so many say they dislike intelligent women,” Perry drawled, making his way to the drinks table he’dlocated tucked in below a bank of tall windows. This was going well; this was going better than well. And he only felt a little bit guilty. “Sherry, Miss Fredericks?” he asked, holding up a crystal decanter.
    â€œYes, thank you,” Amelia said, then cocked her head to one side, as if inspecting him. “So. You’re a fribble, is that the term you used? Perhaps even a ne’er-do-well?”
    â€œA totally useless lump, yes, but not a ne’er-do-well. Perhaps more of a ne’er-do-anything,” Perry said, handing her a glass. “Wealthy, titled, incurious about the world and how it works, bored into near insensibility by politics, but utterly fascinated by the cut of my waistcoat, the speed of my horses, the precise mix of my sort—snuff, that is—the quality of my dinners. Do I look ashamed, Miss Fredericks? Mine uncle vows I should.”
    â€œYour uncle is sadly disappointed, I’m sure, My Lord, as you look quite—quite satisfied, with who and what you are.” She shrugged. “But I do believe the world needs butterflies, as well as worker bees.”
    â€œAnd worker bees need their queen,” Perry slid in with what he thought was near brilliance on his part. “Evidence of that truth can be found in