Part 6 (1/2)
”Fine. If you insist.”
He looked a bit disappointed in her choice of words, then took up her gloved hand and sighed. Speechless for once?
She took pity.
”I'll say yes to you now, but I'm going to wake in a moment and this will have been a nightmare.”
He smiled. ”You mean a dream.”
”No. I mean a nightmare.”
”Now who is the one who's teasing?” He pulled her close and kissed her on the tip of the nose. ”You'll still have to call me Your Grace, of course. Sometimes, in private, you may call me Lord Fool.”
She frowned and tried to push him away. He was having none of it.
”Will it make a difference that I shall also be addressing you as Your Grace?”
”It might.” She grabbed his cravat and pulled him close. ”Kiss me, Lord Fool.”
THE END.
BLOOD FOR INK.
Book One of The Scarlet Plumiere Series
CHAPTER ONE.
Capital Journal, Fiction Section, Friday, February the First A rumor currently circulates among the gentry in Londonberry that the white/blond Viscount of F had a visitor one recent morning, or rather, visitors, as the woman who claimed to be his wife brought with her a pair of identical offspring closely resembling the earl himself. Piercing blue eyes and straight white hair adorned both cherubs whose mother was blessed with the dark hair of her pure Spanish ancestors.
Not believing the woman, or his own eyes it seems, The Viscount of F shooed the little family from his n.o.ble steps and into the halls of a certain hotel where they have taken up residence until a higher authority might be able to hear their tale.
It was also rumored that the mistress of Viscount of F has moved out of his grasp as she deemed it unwise to a.s.sociate with a man who possesses untrustworthy...eyes.
Stay tuned to see if the current fiancee of this poor-sighted creature is also saved from his company.-The Scarlet Plumiere ”Well, Stanley, you can't very well sue the paper for libel when they did print this in the fiction section.” Ramsey Birmingham, Earl of Northwick kept a straight face, but only just. His friend was not the first to be chastised by the red-penned writer. That he was being so dramatic about it, so early in the day, was an invitation for torment.
”But North! I tell you there was no woman. No wife. No children with my blue eyes and white hair.”
”White hair, even. Not blonde.” The Marquis of Harcourt prodded poor Stanley from behind, then walked around the man and offered him a much needed drink.
”It's early.” Stanley waited for someone to agree.
”Drink!” Harcourt slapped him on the back, nearly spilling the shot of courage.
Stanley needed no more prompting and emptied the gla.s.s, then stared into its empty depths. ”Yes, white hair. There are no such creatures, I a.s.sure you. I've only been to Spain two years ago...oh dear.”
”Well, the vixen got that right at least.” Earnest Meriwether, the unfortunately named Earl of Montpelier, chimed in from the far stacks of North's immodest library.
”But Monty, I'm telling you, there is no such woman.” Stanley looked at a chair, but North shook his head, as if to say the morning's business was so serious he should keep on his toes.
Stanley straightened and lifted his chin, poor man. So easily manipulated. The Scarlet Plumiere really shouldn't have picked on such a harmless chap. North was of half a mind to hunt her down and tell her so.
”Well, the Scarlet Plumiere has yet to accuse an innocent man, even if she is a bit inaccurate on the specificity of the crime.” Monty joined the rest, eyes fixed on an open volume of Shakespeare-the red leather set. He took the seat Stanley had wanted.
”He's right, of course. Let's hear it, Stanley. What have you done?” Harcourt hooked a leg over the corner of a table and leaned forward for the details.
Of course, Stanley broke.
”I've done nothing! Nothing the rest of our lot hasn't done from time to time.”
North couldn't bring himself to prod the Viscount further. The poor man had asked his three closest friends to meet that morning to find a solution to his newest problem-as fresh as the morning paper. They really should get to the business of helping the chap.
Harcourt was in no such hurry.
”Stanley, you're trying our patience. Spit out the confession now or I don't see us making much of an attempt to save your sorry hide.”
Stanley flushed from his pinned cravat to the roots of his transparent-like hair. The color hardly became him.
”I set Ursula aside yesterday.”
”You what?” Three baritones in unison sounded almost rehea.r.s.ed.
North shook his head. ”I'm sorry, old boy. You did what?”
”He set her aside.”
North turned to Monty. ”He set her aside.”
”Yes, blast you. I set her aside.”
Monty closed the book and set Shakespeare on the overstuffed arm. ”Pardon my slow wit, but just how does one put an Ursula aside?”
Monty was right. Stanley and his hair had had the pick of women since they were all in knee breeches together. Now he had the pick of all mistresses and he'd chosen very well. It was quite possible Stan, old pal, was the first man to actually end an affair with the woman. Ursula did the shopping for a new lover. Ursula let that lover know when he was no longer welcome. But Stanley Winters, Viscount Forsgreen, had set her aside.
”I suppose he picked her up by the shoulders, turned, and set her down again.” Harcourt demonstrated with an invisible model, then dusted his hands. ”Out of his way, presumably. Is that accurate, Stanley?”
Stanley's blush looked to be seeping into his actual hair.