Lord Will & Her Grace by Sophia Nash

Farquhar
sniffed.
    "Oh, I don't know." William held back a grin.
"Perhaps you are right about the Prince Regent. The man is a dead
bore. But, I suppose I would rise to see the queen at this unholy
hour—but so far, I've been fortunate. She rises later than I."
    "Well, I for one am glad those escapades"—
Farquhar lifted his eyebrows as high as possible— "are long over. I
am still having nightmares over those trysts. I was sure we'd be
tossed out of the country—made to swim the Channel, despite
everything we did for the Crown."
    "As I remember, you have nothing to complain
about. You won more bets below stairs than any gentleman at
White's."
    "And how else was I to eat?" Farquhar took a
deep breath to launch into his favorite topic. "What with the many
long years of sorry pay from British intelligence for risking our
bloody necks, and the inconsistent manner I am currently
compensated…" "Martyrdom never suited you."
    "Well." Farquhar's face puckered. "I see we
are evading questions this morning."
    "Do you have a fan, dear boy?" William asked,
turning from the glass. At least he had found a coat of Farquhar's
that was a touch more conservative. The white pantaloons were
another story. They were so tight they bordered on the obscene.
    "A fan? Certainly." Farquhar looked delighted
by the proposition of William stretching his personal wardrobe to
the limits. On the way to retrieve the article, Farquhar stopped in
midstride. "What, pray tell, are you going to do with a fan at nine
o'clock in the morning?"
    Knowledge dawned.
    "Ah. So we have a little assignation planned?
A lady, I presume, with the care you have taken this morning. And
is my fan to be a gift? I'm not at all sure I can part with it. It
was painted by a celebrated artist and is worth—"
    "Give over. I shall return it to you before
noon," William interrupted the endless stream of his valet's
words.
    "Touchy, aren't we?"
    Farquhar disappeared for a moment and
returned carrying two fans of differing sizes. "Now you must take
great care when—"
    "Thank you," William said, taking both fans
from Farquhar in midsentence.
    "You promised there would be no more running
and hiding." Farquhar attached a tiny white rosebud to William's
lapel and looked him square in the face. "Just tell me you are not
planning on seducing one of those silly Mornington chits. Even
though I can't abide their brother, I've no desire to go
willy-nilly about the country again so soon. And Lord knows I'd
have to ask for references and my last pay if I had to face the
sight of one of those females in your bed for the rest of my
life."
    "Your observations never fail to amuse. And
you know I haven't a farthing to pay you for the last quarter. So I
daresay I'll have to allow other, more"—he scratched his
chin—"charitable gentlemen the honor of courting the Misses
Mornington."
    "Then—"
    "Then, nothing, mon vieux . I am out to
take the air."
    "The air? You? Take the air at ten o'clock in
the morning?"
    William murmured his assent.
    "Ah, then it must be the Welsh female. At
least she has tolerable teeth and knows when to stop clacking
them."
    William laughed. "So she does."
    "Well, don't forget Mr. Derby will be coming
to see you this afternoon along with the architect. They cannot be
put off much longer."
    "That is why I look the veritable bridegroom,
dear boy," William said.
    Jack Farquhar stopped brushing the lint from
the back of William's coat. "Far be it for me to give you my
opinion," he huffed. "Besides, feelings of guilt have never been
your forte."
     

     
    Sophie knew she was being foolish. She had
taken extraordinary care in her dress on this glorious blue-sky
morning. It was something she had not cared to do since leaving
London's elegant townhouses.
    She bounded down the steep descent of the
footpath to the narrow strip of sand below. Her white silk gown
with gold braiding billowed out behind her as a gust of wind played
havoc with her carefully coiffed curls.
    She had even