romance. Storybook heroes were all well and good—in the pages of books. In real life heroes tended to act outside comfortable conventions or, worse, go off to war. No matter, Rowanne was all too practical to wait for love to sweep her off her feet. She had been born to the principle of marrying well and had no doubt that if her father were alive, he would already have arranged an advantageous marriage for her. The gentleman would have been wealthy, titled, and well connected, whether she felt affection for him or not.
Rowanne reassessed her requirements. She was wealthy enough in her own right to consider a man's fortune of little concern, as long as he was not marrying her for the money, and expediency meant less than comfort, although she was not about to run off with the footman or anything. She wanted a man she could respect and the kind of life she was used to living. If he had a bit of property somewhere, all to the good. Now she added another factor: He had to answer the new longings that toad Delverson had aroused. To this end Rowanne started experimenting over the next few weeks.
Miss Wimberly's most persistent suitor was Lord Fairborn, whose self-esteem was as high as his shirt collars. With some little effort, Rowanne happened to lead their steps away from the bright lights at Vauxhall onto one of the infamous Dark Paths. Fairborn's kiss was wet and pulpy, reminding Rowanne unpleasantly of Miss Worthington's oyster. Rowanne had the dandy back in the lighted areas before the cat could lick its ear.
Sir Allerby, who gambled often and won less often, according to the omniscient Miss Grimble, was permitted to escort Rowanne to the balcony at Lady Haight's rout for a breath of air. His kiss was as dry and lifeless as yesterday's toast. Rowanne decided she needed a cool drink instead of the night's breeze.
Squire Farnsworth was next. ("Country gentleman, in town one month a year, but a good portion of Lincolnshire in the family. Pigs.") Rowanne wondered if Miss Grimble meant the cash crop or Farnsworth's manners. His kiss in the bushes of Hyde Park left her breathless all right, but only because he crushed her ribs so tightly.
Surely a Frenchman knew how to kiss! Le Comte de Chambarque was a newly arrived
émigré. ("Ancien Regime. Lost the land, saved the money.") He was elegant in his manner, draping Rowanne across his arm, whispering French love words. The languid kiss would have made Mrs. Radcliffe weep, but his mustache tickled.
Lord Cavendish ("Good ton, gazetted rake.") tried to stick his tongue in Rowanne's mouth, so she bit it, garlic breath and all.
Weeks became months and Miss Grimble was hard-pressed to come up with new men to bring to Rowanne's attention. Hostesses began to look askance at the popular Miss
Wimberly, and her dance partners were sending raffish leers her way. Miss Grimble's hair-ridden upper lip was pursed, and even Gabe wondered if females were accustomed to sowing wild oats. He did not ask what she was about; he just kept nodding and smiling at the chits she dragged home, listened to them batter the pianoforte, watched them simper over tea, danced with the required number of wallflowers—and hurried home to his books and speeches.
Then it was nearly summer, with Aunt Cora's querulous demand that Rowanne attend her at Bath and explain precisely what she was doing, making micefeet of her reputation. Aunt Emonda wrote again, inviting Gabriel and Rowanne to High Clyme for the warm months. Rowanne was almost tempted, until Lady Clyme's next letter mentioned that her niece Suzannah would also be in residence for the summer. Perhaps Miss Wimberly recalled Suzannah's stepbrother, Captain Delverson? Miss Wimberly needed no reminders. She would not go to Dorset if the Holy Grail was buried there.
Happily they received another invitation, to help make up a house party at Lord Quinton's country residence in Suffolk, where Rowanne's ex-governess/companion, Miss Simpson, was slowly
Rowanne reassessed her requirements. She was wealthy enough in her own right to consider a man's fortune of little concern, as long as he was not marrying her for the money, and expediency meant less than comfort, although she was not about to run off with the footman or anything. She wanted a man she could respect and the kind of life she was used to living. If he had a bit of property somewhere, all to the good. Now she added another factor: He had to answer the new longings that toad Delverson had aroused. To this end Rowanne started experimenting over the next few weeks.
Miss Wimberly's most persistent suitor was Lord Fairborn, whose self-esteem was as high as his shirt collars. With some little effort, Rowanne happened to lead their steps away from the bright lights at Vauxhall onto one of the infamous Dark Paths. Fairborn's kiss was wet and pulpy, reminding Rowanne unpleasantly of Miss Worthington's oyster. Rowanne had the dandy back in the lighted areas before the cat could lick its ear.
Sir Allerby, who gambled often and won less often, according to the omniscient Miss Grimble, was permitted to escort Rowanne to the balcony at Lady Haight's rout for a breath of air. His kiss was as dry and lifeless as yesterday's toast. Rowanne decided she needed a cool drink instead of the night's breeze.
Squire Farnsworth was next. ("Country gentleman, in town one month a year, but a good portion of Lincolnshire in the family. Pigs.") Rowanne wondered if Miss Grimble meant the cash crop or Farnsworth's manners. His kiss in the bushes of Hyde Park left her breathless all right, but only because he crushed her ribs so tightly.
Surely a Frenchman knew how to kiss! Le Comte de Chambarque was a newly arrived
émigré. ("Ancien Regime. Lost the land, saved the money.") He was elegant in his manner, draping Rowanne across his arm, whispering French love words. The languid kiss would have made Mrs. Radcliffe weep, but his mustache tickled.
Lord Cavendish ("Good ton, gazetted rake.") tried to stick his tongue in Rowanne's mouth, so she bit it, garlic breath and all.
Weeks became months and Miss Grimble was hard-pressed to come up with new men to bring to Rowanne's attention. Hostesses began to look askance at the popular Miss
Wimberly, and her dance partners were sending raffish leers her way. Miss Grimble's hair-ridden upper lip was pursed, and even Gabe wondered if females were accustomed to sowing wild oats. He did not ask what she was about; he just kept nodding and smiling at the chits she dragged home, listened to them batter the pianoforte, watched them simper over tea, danced with the required number of wallflowers—and hurried home to his books and speeches.
Then it was nearly summer, with Aunt Cora's querulous demand that Rowanne attend her at Bath and explain precisely what she was doing, making micefeet of her reputation. Aunt Emonda wrote again, inviting Gabriel and Rowanne to High Clyme for the warm months. Rowanne was almost tempted, until Lady Clyme's next letter mentioned that her niece Suzannah would also be in residence for the summer. Perhaps Miss Wimberly recalled Suzannah's stepbrother, Captain Delverson? Miss Wimberly needed no reminders. She would not go to Dorset if the Holy Grail was buried there.
Happily they received another invitation, to help make up a house party at Lord Quinton's country residence in Suffolk, where Rowanne's ex-governess/companion, Miss Simpson, was slowly
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