lines of the chairs and occasional tables cleaner than their English counterparts.
“The gilt on the furniture alone might feed a small English town for a year,” she said.
“And an Indian one for two,” Quinn returned, pleased that their thoughts traveled along the same paths.
“Oh, I say, young Ashford! Is that you?” Lady Wimbly waddled across the room toward them, her long-suffering husband in tow. The couple lived near his father’s country estate and had known Quinn since he was in short pants.
“Here we are on holiday in France and whom should we see but our neighbor.” Lady Wimbly fluttered her fan with such vigor, Quinn felt his forelock lift in the breeze. “Imagine that. They do say it’s a small world, don’t they? Of course, they do. So you’re back from India now, I collect.” She lifted her lorgnette and eyed Viola through the lenses. “And who might this be?”
Quinn introduced her to them as his new bride.
“Preston? Lady Viola Preston? Oh, I say, you knew her father, didn’t you, Wimbly?” She poked her husband with her round elbow. Apparently, or perhaps fortunately, Lord Wimbly was hard of hearing. Lady W raised her voice. “Eustace Preston, Earl of Meade, what? You knew him at Oxford, didn’t you, Wimbly.”
“Why, yes, I remember when he and—”
“So sorry for your loss, dear.” The lady patted Viola’s arm in sympathy while she trampled on her husband’s attempt to join the conversation and hurried on, blithely unaware she’d done it. “And may I say I deplore the straits in which your cousin left you and your mother. It was badly done. Badly done, indeed.”
Apparently there was no aspect of life among the ton that went unexamined by Lady Wimbly.
“But now that you’re Lady Ashford, no doubt your new husband will do for your family what your cousin wouldn’t, eh, what? More shame on him, too. They do say ‘All’s well that ends well,’ don’t they? Of course, they do.” She rapped Quinn’s forearm with her fan. “My dear boy, it was bad of you not to invite us to your wedding.”
“Forgive me. It was something of a whirlwind courtship,” Quinn improvised, enjoying the excuse to slip a hand around Viola’s waist and draw her closer to him. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away. “Once I met this lovely lady, I couldn’t wait another moment. I confess I convinced her to elope. First, it was off to Gretna Green and now for our honeymoon, we’ve fled to France.”
“Fled?” Lady Wimbly seized upon the word. “So I take it your father is unaware of this . . . ahem . . . happy turn of events.”
That was a complication he hadn’t foreseen. He should have bitten his tongue before starting down that road.
“Blissfully unaware.” Quinn winked at her. “And I rather hope he continues thusly for a good long while. If you’re planning to go Home soon, do let me be the one to tell him, won’t you?”
Lord Wimbly promised to keep their secret. Lady Wimbly waved to someone across the room whom she’d not yet greeted and begged to be excused.
As the worthy matron duck-footed her way toward her next conversational victims with Lord Wimbly in her wake, Quinn leaned down to whisper to Viola. “I fear Lady Wimbly has no intention of keeping our oh-so-delicious secret.”
“It hardly matters since not a word about our matrimonial bliss is true.”
Viola hadn’t counted on meeting anyone she knew in France. She certainly hadn’t expected Quinn to spin such a fanciful tale about their elopement. Word of her exploits would circulate throughout the ton, and once it became known she and Lieutenant Quinn weren’t actually married, she might as well become some well-heeled gentleman’s mistress and be done with feigning respectability entirely. No decent door would be open to her.
Quinn didn’t seem to realize the gravity of her situation. “You look pale.” His dark brows beetled with concern. “Are you all right?”
As all right as a ruined
“The gilt on the furniture alone might feed a small English town for a year,” she said.
“And an Indian one for two,” Quinn returned, pleased that their thoughts traveled along the same paths.
“Oh, I say, young Ashford! Is that you?” Lady Wimbly waddled across the room toward them, her long-suffering husband in tow. The couple lived near his father’s country estate and had known Quinn since he was in short pants.
“Here we are on holiday in France and whom should we see but our neighbor.” Lady Wimbly fluttered her fan with such vigor, Quinn felt his forelock lift in the breeze. “Imagine that. They do say it’s a small world, don’t they? Of course, they do. So you’re back from India now, I collect.” She lifted her lorgnette and eyed Viola through the lenses. “And who might this be?”
Quinn introduced her to them as his new bride.
“Preston? Lady Viola Preston? Oh, I say, you knew her father, didn’t you, Wimbly?” She poked her husband with her round elbow. Apparently, or perhaps fortunately, Lord Wimbly was hard of hearing. Lady W raised her voice. “Eustace Preston, Earl of Meade, what? You knew him at Oxford, didn’t you, Wimbly.”
“Why, yes, I remember when he and—”
“So sorry for your loss, dear.” The lady patted Viola’s arm in sympathy while she trampled on her husband’s attempt to join the conversation and hurried on, blithely unaware she’d done it. “And may I say I deplore the straits in which your cousin left you and your mother. It was badly done. Badly done, indeed.”
Apparently there was no aspect of life among the ton that went unexamined by Lady Wimbly.
“But now that you’re Lady Ashford, no doubt your new husband will do for your family what your cousin wouldn’t, eh, what? More shame on him, too. They do say ‘All’s well that ends well,’ don’t they? Of course, they do.” She rapped Quinn’s forearm with her fan. “My dear boy, it was bad of you not to invite us to your wedding.”
“Forgive me. It was something of a whirlwind courtship,” Quinn improvised, enjoying the excuse to slip a hand around Viola’s waist and draw her closer to him. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away. “Once I met this lovely lady, I couldn’t wait another moment. I confess I convinced her to elope. First, it was off to Gretna Green and now for our honeymoon, we’ve fled to France.”
“Fled?” Lady Wimbly seized upon the word. “So I take it your father is unaware of this . . . ahem . . . happy turn of events.”
That was a complication he hadn’t foreseen. He should have bitten his tongue before starting down that road.
“Blissfully unaware.” Quinn winked at her. “And I rather hope he continues thusly for a good long while. If you’re planning to go Home soon, do let me be the one to tell him, won’t you?”
Lord Wimbly promised to keep their secret. Lady Wimbly waved to someone across the room whom she’d not yet greeted and begged to be excused.
As the worthy matron duck-footed her way toward her next conversational victims with Lord Wimbly in her wake, Quinn leaned down to whisper to Viola. “I fear Lady Wimbly has no intention of keeping our oh-so-delicious secret.”
“It hardly matters since not a word about our matrimonial bliss is true.”
Viola hadn’t counted on meeting anyone she knew in France. She certainly hadn’t expected Quinn to spin such a fanciful tale about their elopement. Word of her exploits would circulate throughout the ton, and once it became known she and Lieutenant Quinn weren’t actually married, she might as well become some well-heeled gentleman’s mistress and be done with feigning respectability entirely. No decent door would be open to her.
Quinn didn’t seem to realize the gravity of her situation. “You look pale.” His dark brows beetled with concern. “Are you all right?”
As all right as a ruined
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