Taffeta & Hotspur by Claudy Conn Page A

do? He was a
rogue and had a slew of women all vying for his affection and his
bed. He didn’t want her; not really, for he hadn’t even called in
her marker, and it didn’t appear as though he meant to do
so.
    He probably thought she was nothing
more than a silly schoolgirl. Maybe her kisses had done nothing for
him? Maybe he thought she would be inadequate in bed, and on that
score, he might be right. What did she know about the art of making
love? She shook her head over the problem. Naught—except what she
and her friends had whispered about and giggled over in the dark of
night when she had been at school.
    However, her aunt constantly clapped
her hands together and declared she was in heaven. Sissy told her
the rakehell Hotspur had gotten her coined the ‘incomparable’
amongst the haute ton. How absurd. But apparently Tarrant had never
before given a marriageable chit so much public attention, and had
everyone jabbering with excitement and speculation.
    The last two mornings had been
overloaded with callers, and she was heartily weary of the entire
social scene. Each time Jarvis would appear, she would look
hopefully, only to find it wasn’t Hotspur…
    And her dear Cathy! That was another
problem she was going to have to solve. Something awful had
happened to Cathy, for although she had tried, she could not get
her to speak about it. All she knew was it had something to do with
Bruton, and Bruton was ever lurking about making her friend
uncomfortable.
    Taffeta wasn’t sure what to make of
him, but flirted with him in an effort to get to the bottom of
Cathy’s distress, hoping he might let something slip during their
conversations.
    Third on her list of matters to
dissect and solve was the gentleman Lord James Fenmore. He was
besotted with Cathy, but Cathy kept him at a distance, and he had
adopted Taffy as his confident. He was forever seeking her out and
then mooning over Catherine and asking her what next he should do
to win dear Catherine’s approval.
    Then, if those things weren’t enough
of a trial for any one young woman in her first London season,
there was Nigel and Seth.
    Her brother Seth had come of age and
now had sole guardianship of her, and he had been playing the
superior card all morning, coming on strong, and she was heartily
sick of it.
    She sighed; for she would just have to
let it all slide for the moment as her aunt had already raised a
glass of champagne—to her brother.
    “’ Tis only eleven o’clock…”
Her voice, even to herself, sounded as though she was whining, and
she sighed again. She picked up a glass, rolled her eyes, and
joined in the birthday toast to her brother.
    A sip later, she wrinkled her nose but
said, “Hmm, lovely…”
    Seth laughed, and Nigel said, “Another
toast from me, nephew. Here’s to you, Seth. Thank Jupiter, the brat
is now yours to order about.”
    “ No one can order me about.”
Taffy rounded on them. “The very idea,” she said, teasing back and
then turned to Nigel. “Look who is going all fashionable—that is an
oriental knot you have sporting your tie.
    “ Well, one must keep up if
one wants to be taken seriously, and I do think our arguments in
Parliament have not been for naught,” retorted Nigel.
    “ What are you talking
about?” Seth looked scornfully at him. “After you gave your speech,
they called you a radical.”
    “ Yes, but then Lord Byron
got up, and his speech silenced everyone. It was quite
beautiful.”
    “ Read the last paragraph,”
entreated Seth. “Where he speaks about the bill…”
    “ What bill?” asked Lady
Marble, showing some interest.
    “ A death penalty has been
proposed for all Luddites caught smashing frames and looms,”
explained Nigel.
    “ You cannot mean it?” cried
Taffeta.
    “ Indeed, a death penalty is
severe, but something must be done to stop the destruction of
property.”
    “ Yes, something must be
done—pay them a decent wage so they don’t starve,” argued