Authors: French Leave
“Good God, no!” he said emphatically. “In fact, I was thinking to make an early night of it. I’m setting out for ‘ome at first light.”
Even his doting papa could tell that Willie’s accent, which never raised an eyebrow in Lancashire, struck a jarring note in a London ballroom. Sir Ethan, hoping to spare his son much of the scorn that he had endured, had once engaged a tutor who assured him of his ability to rid the boy of this social impediment within a month. However, when it was discovered that his methods of instruction relied heavily on the frequent use of a razor strop, Sir Ethan had turned the fellow out on his ear. Willie’s accent remained.
“Your mama was ‘oping you’d stay on a bit,” Sir Ethan told his son. “It wouldn’t ‘urt you to ‘ave a bit of Town bronze, you know.”
“Per’aps not, but I don’t see that it would ‘elp me, either. A waste of time, if you ask me—”
But Sir Ethan did not ask him; in fact, his father was no longer attending him at all, his attention having been claimed by a late arrival.
“I trust you will forgive my tardiness,” drawled Lord Waverly. “A late dinner at my club, you know.”
“Of course,” replied Sir Ethan, accepting the earl’s handshake.
“How fortunate for me that the Brundys are such a generous lot! Was it only three weeks ago that your son was presenting mine with— what was it, now? Oh, yes! A black eye, I believe.”
Sir Ethan could not but grin at this reference to young Ben’s unscheduled holiday from Eton. “Per’aps Viscount Melling will remember in the future not to make unwanted observations on me boy’s lineage,” he suggested. “Speaking of boys, ‘ave you met me second son, Willie?”
Lord Waverly turned his attention to the younger man. “Not since he was in leading strings. I’m sorry to say that he has not improved with age: he still looks far too much like his father.”
“I say, Papa—!” exclaimed Willie, taken aback by this forthright speech.
“Let it go, Willie,” advised his father.
“By the bye, have you seen my wife? I promised to meet her here.”
“Aye, just a minute ago she was—” Sir Ethan scanned the ballroom once more. “There she is, beside the palm tree.”
The set had just ended, and as the violins fell silent, the dancers cleared the floor, giving the earl an unobstructed view of the opposite wall. Beside the palm tree, Lady Waverly sat talking to a dark-haired young lady in a pale pink gown whose bell-shaped skirt emphasized her slender waist. Even at eight-and-thirty, Lisette retained much of the gamine quality that had characterized her at seventeen—a quality also very much in evidence in the young lady who accompanied her.
“Ah, Lord Waverly,” said Lady Helen Brundy, retiring from the dance floor to join her spouse. “How lovely to see the two of you cry friends, at least for the occasion.”
“Lady Helen,” returned the earl, raising her gloved hand to his lips. “Always a pleasure. Tell me, has Lisette utterly given me up?”
“Not at all. William, come make your bow to Lady Waverly. You loved her when you were very small, but you will not remember that.”
But Willie Brundy offered no comment. Instead, he stared slack-jawed at the delicate beauty in pink seated beside Lisette. That young lady, as if feeling his eyes upon her, met his gaze across the width of the ballroom and, turning away, began to ply her fan vigorously.
“I say!” said Willie at last. “ ‘Oo is
that?”
“ ‘That,’ as you put it, is Lord Waverly’s daughter Lady Eugénie.”
“That,” pronounced Willie with great deliberation, “is the lady I’m going to marry.”
Sir Ethan and the earl, staring at one another in mutual horror, made no reply.
Copyright © 2001 by Sheri Cobb South
Originally published by PrinnyWorld Press (0966800540)
Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.