intimidated.
The Colonel’s lips quirked in a smile. “In spirit, perhaps, Miss Meadows—that I’ll grant you—but not in years.” He nodded to the poster in front of them. “Are you a devotee of the opera, Miss Meadows?”
“Of the—oh.” Blast the man, he had thoroughly discommoded her, treating her like a sprig of a green girl. She shrugged a shoulder, glad that she was wearing her best traveling dress, tailored in Paris, and designed to put upstart Anglo-Indian army officers in their place. “I take an interest.” Especially when the star soprano happened to be employed by Bonaparte’s slippery foreign minister. “It depends on the production.”
“I’ve always been one for Mozart myself,” said Colonel Reid. “There’s a nice bounce to his music, and it always all comes out right in the end.”
“Hardly realistic,” Gwen shot back.
“Neither is singing out one’s woes at the top of one’s lungs,” countered Colonel Reid. He grinned. “When was the last time you’ve done that? With an orchestra to follow one about, no less.”
“Most of the orchestras I’ve encountered,” said Gwen, “are remarkably stationary.”
The lines at the corners of Colonel Reid’s eyes crinkled. “Do you ever allow anyone else the last word, Miss Meadows?”
“Not if they haven’t wit enough to seize it,” said Gwen.
“That,” said Colonel Reid, “sounds remarkably like a challenge.”
Oh, he wanted a challenge, did he? Gwen was about to put him quite soundly in his place—she wasn’t quite sure how, but she was certain she could have come up with something—when the same arrogant young lordling she had seen before shoved past them, making for a curricle that was just being drawn up in the courtyard.
“What took you so bloody long?”
“Apologies, my lord. The horses were spavined, the tack was frayed, and the replacements delayed—”
“I don’t care if they were stayed, flayed, and spayed,” said the young man arrogantly, climbing up onto the high perch. He reached out impatiently for the reins. “Well, give me that!”
The landlord handed over the reins, murmuring apologies.
“For your troubles,” said the lordling, and tossed a coin in the air. It glinted dully, copper rather than gold, before landing in the churned mud. The landlord jumped out of the way as the curricle shot forward, the horses’ hooves kicking up clods of dirt as they went. The horses, fresh and restive, pulled at the bit, yanking the carriage sideways, straight at Gwen.
Before she could even get a grip on her trusty parasol, she found herself flung back against the wall, the Colonel pressed against her, shielding her with his body.
Flecks of mud spattered the wall next to them. There was the sound of men cursing and horses whinnying and geese squawking.
“Are you all right?” the Colonel asked, looking down at her with concern.
“I would be”—they were pressed together, front to front, the buttons of the Colonel’s coat biting into her chest, his hands braced against the wall on either side of her arms—“if I could breathe.”
He looked at her quizzically. They were close enough that she could make out the faint hint of a scar beside his lip, close enough to kiss.
Where had that ridiculous thought come from?
Gwen mustered the breath to say, “Your buttons, Colonel. I am sure they are most attractive, but they are also rather poking.”
“What? Oh! My apologies!” The Colonel gallantly removed himself from her person, looking her over with a concerned eye. “You are unharmed? That idiot in the curricle . . .”
“Perfectly,” said Gwen crisply. She bent to retrieve her parasol, noting, as she stood, that there was a gash across the poster of Fiorila. The carriage lamp must have ripped right across.
She had been standing directly in front of that poster, her nose on a level with Fiorila’s bisected bust.
The Colonel had noticed as well. “Young buck,” he said with heat,
The Colonel’s lips quirked in a smile. “In spirit, perhaps, Miss Meadows—that I’ll grant you—but not in years.” He nodded to the poster in front of them. “Are you a devotee of the opera, Miss Meadows?”
“Of the—oh.” Blast the man, he had thoroughly discommoded her, treating her like a sprig of a green girl. She shrugged a shoulder, glad that she was wearing her best traveling dress, tailored in Paris, and designed to put upstart Anglo-Indian army officers in their place. “I take an interest.” Especially when the star soprano happened to be employed by Bonaparte’s slippery foreign minister. “It depends on the production.”
“I’ve always been one for Mozart myself,” said Colonel Reid. “There’s a nice bounce to his music, and it always all comes out right in the end.”
“Hardly realistic,” Gwen shot back.
“Neither is singing out one’s woes at the top of one’s lungs,” countered Colonel Reid. He grinned. “When was the last time you’ve done that? With an orchestra to follow one about, no less.”
“Most of the orchestras I’ve encountered,” said Gwen, “are remarkably stationary.”
The lines at the corners of Colonel Reid’s eyes crinkled. “Do you ever allow anyone else the last word, Miss Meadows?”
“Not if they haven’t wit enough to seize it,” said Gwen.
“That,” said Colonel Reid, “sounds remarkably like a challenge.”
Oh, he wanted a challenge, did he? Gwen was about to put him quite soundly in his place—she wasn’t quite sure how, but she was certain she could have come up with something—when the same arrogant young lordling she had seen before shoved past them, making for a curricle that was just being drawn up in the courtyard.
“What took you so bloody long?”
“Apologies, my lord. The horses were spavined, the tack was frayed, and the replacements delayed—”
“I don’t care if they were stayed, flayed, and spayed,” said the young man arrogantly, climbing up onto the high perch. He reached out impatiently for the reins. “Well, give me that!”
The landlord handed over the reins, murmuring apologies.
“For your troubles,” said the lordling, and tossed a coin in the air. It glinted dully, copper rather than gold, before landing in the churned mud. The landlord jumped out of the way as the curricle shot forward, the horses’ hooves kicking up clods of dirt as they went. The horses, fresh and restive, pulled at the bit, yanking the carriage sideways, straight at Gwen.
Before she could even get a grip on her trusty parasol, she found herself flung back against the wall, the Colonel pressed against her, shielding her with his body.
Flecks of mud spattered the wall next to them. There was the sound of men cursing and horses whinnying and geese squawking.
“Are you all right?” the Colonel asked, looking down at her with concern.
“I would be”—they were pressed together, front to front, the buttons of the Colonel’s coat biting into her chest, his hands braced against the wall on either side of her arms—“if I could breathe.”
He looked at her quizzically. They were close enough that she could make out the faint hint of a scar beside his lip, close enough to kiss.
Where had that ridiculous thought come from?
Gwen mustered the breath to say, “Your buttons, Colonel. I am sure they are most attractive, but they are also rather poking.”
“What? Oh! My apologies!” The Colonel gallantly removed himself from her person, looking her over with a concerned eye. “You are unharmed? That idiot in the curricle . . .”
“Perfectly,” said Gwen crisply. She bent to retrieve her parasol, noting, as she stood, that there was a gash across the poster of Fiorila. The carriage lamp must have ripped right across.
She had been standing directly in front of that poster, her nose on a level with Fiorila’s bisected bust.
The Colonel had noticed as well. “Young buck,” he said with heat,
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