dear boy. I sleep much better at night knowing she now has you to watch over her while she is pursuing her field research into vampires and werewolves.”
Before Ian could do anything more than wipe the astonished expression off his face, Lady Mary bounced off in her merry way. Bloody hell! The dratted woman thought he was a babysitter.
Crossing his arms on his chest, Ian glared, daring anyone to approach him. Enough was enough. Nothing else was going to disturb him tonight. But as often happened, his best-laid plans ended abruptly.
The grand door to the salon was flung open. A tall, stately, elegant, and yet pompous woman entered the room with Clair by her side. The aging dame was dressed in an Elizabethan-period gown of fading green brocade, complete with tall white ruffles around the neck. A gold jeweled crown was set atop her silver hair. She stopped before Ian, a regality in her manner. Eyebrows arched, she gave Clair a pointed look.
“My great-aunt, Lady Abby Frankenstein,” Clair said anxiously, searching Ian’s face for a reflection of his thoughts.
Clair had suffered many insults regarding her great-aunt Abby’s eccentric behavior, each one a tiny nail in the coffin of her reputation. She didn’t believe Ian was a shallow man, but experience had taught her the virtue of being cautious where her family was concerned.
A loud cough to her right side brought Clair back from her worries. Glancing at the stern expression on her great aunt’s face, Clair quickly conceded, “Great-aunt Abby is also known as Queen Elizabeth of England.”
Ian bowed formally over Clair’s great aunt’s hand, a courtier’s smile on his face. He assumed an expression both polite and serious, an expression suitable for meeting one’s monarch.
Clair felt the tension in her muscles ease greatly. She hadn’t even realized she was holding her shoulders so tightly.
Another cough came, louder this time. Clair finished the introductions. “Elizabeth the First, Queen of England. The greatest queen of all time—even if someday there happens to be an Elizabeth the Second.”
“I concur,” Ian said, then smiled into the eyes of the older woman. Deep lines fanned outward from the edges, but did nothing to dim the audacious brightness in her gaze.
“I am charmed by the honor you do me,” he said quietly to Lady Abby.
The woman bowed her head regally and moved on to greet the other guests, a study in queenly demeanor. Ian stared after her.
“I take it Lady Abby has a slight problem with reality?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” Clair protested. “Aunt Abby is normal—except when she is having one of her episodes. This time she is Queen Elizabeth. I must admit Elizabeth is one of my favorites.”
“She has other people she impersonates?” Ian asked, fascinated in spite of himself. Not withstanding what Clair said, Lady Abby’s normalcy was a moot point. As far as he was concerned, the woman had more bats in the belfry than Westminster Abbey.
“Oh yes. She believes she is everyone from Caligula to Shakespeare.” Clair searched his face for some sign of revulsion. Happily, she found none.
Ian kept his expression blank, a habit long ingrained. He had been right. Victor Frankenstein wasn’t the only one a few cards short of a full deck in this family. No, it appeared Clair’s nut didn’t fall far from the old Frankenstein family tree, he mused sardonically.
Imps of the Perverse
Clair sat gloating like Cheshire, her friend Jane’s well-fed cat, as she and the other women made polite chitchat and the men finished their brandy and cigars. As far as she was concerned, the dinner party had been a raging success—the one small exception being when Mr. Harre had gotten weepy at the sight of the turtle soup being served.
The talk had been lively, the meal superb, and Ian looked spectacular in his evening clothes. He was dressed wholly in black, with a white waistcoat embroidered with red thread that matched the red ruby pin in
Before Ian could do anything more than wipe the astonished expression off his face, Lady Mary bounced off in her merry way. Bloody hell! The dratted woman thought he was a babysitter.
Crossing his arms on his chest, Ian glared, daring anyone to approach him. Enough was enough. Nothing else was going to disturb him tonight. But as often happened, his best-laid plans ended abruptly.
The grand door to the salon was flung open. A tall, stately, elegant, and yet pompous woman entered the room with Clair by her side. The aging dame was dressed in an Elizabethan-period gown of fading green brocade, complete with tall white ruffles around the neck. A gold jeweled crown was set atop her silver hair. She stopped before Ian, a regality in her manner. Eyebrows arched, she gave Clair a pointed look.
“My great-aunt, Lady Abby Frankenstein,” Clair said anxiously, searching Ian’s face for a reflection of his thoughts.
Clair had suffered many insults regarding her great-aunt Abby’s eccentric behavior, each one a tiny nail in the coffin of her reputation. She didn’t believe Ian was a shallow man, but experience had taught her the virtue of being cautious where her family was concerned.
A loud cough to her right side brought Clair back from her worries. Glancing at the stern expression on her great aunt’s face, Clair quickly conceded, “Great-aunt Abby is also known as Queen Elizabeth of England.”
Ian bowed formally over Clair’s great aunt’s hand, a courtier’s smile on his face. He assumed an expression both polite and serious, an expression suitable for meeting one’s monarch.
Clair felt the tension in her muscles ease greatly. She hadn’t even realized she was holding her shoulders so tightly.
Another cough came, louder this time. Clair finished the introductions. “Elizabeth the First, Queen of England. The greatest queen of all time—even if someday there happens to be an Elizabeth the Second.”
“I concur,” Ian said, then smiled into the eyes of the older woman. Deep lines fanned outward from the edges, but did nothing to dim the audacious brightness in her gaze.
“I am charmed by the honor you do me,” he said quietly to Lady Abby.
The woman bowed her head regally and moved on to greet the other guests, a study in queenly demeanor. Ian stared after her.
“I take it Lady Abby has a slight problem with reality?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” Clair protested. “Aunt Abby is normal—except when she is having one of her episodes. This time she is Queen Elizabeth. I must admit Elizabeth is one of my favorites.”
“She has other people she impersonates?” Ian asked, fascinated in spite of himself. Not withstanding what Clair said, Lady Abby’s normalcy was a moot point. As far as he was concerned, the woman had more bats in the belfry than Westminster Abbey.
“Oh yes. She believes she is everyone from Caligula to Shakespeare.” Clair searched his face for some sign of revulsion. Happily, she found none.
Ian kept his expression blank, a habit long ingrained. He had been right. Victor Frankenstein wasn’t the only one a few cards short of a full deck in this family. No, it appeared Clair’s nut didn’t fall far from the old Frankenstein family tree, he mused sardonically.
Imps of the Perverse
Clair sat gloating like Cheshire, her friend Jane’s well-fed cat, as she and the other women made polite chitchat and the men finished their brandy and cigars. As far as she was concerned, the dinner party had been a raging success—the one small exception being when Mr. Harre had gotten weepy at the sight of the turtle soup being served.
The talk had been lively, the meal superb, and Ian looked spectacular in his evening clothes. He was dressed wholly in black, with a white waistcoat embroidered with red thread that matched the red ruby pin in
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