The Stolen Bride by Jo Beverley

fair of yours?” asked Verderan.
    “Of course not,” Randal replied. “Strictly stones thrown at chipped pots.”
    “I’ll need to practice then,” said the Dark Angel, with a deliberately wicked look at a display of Middle Eastern pottery in one corner. Beth gasped and Sophie gave a nervous giggle. David got speedily to his feet and stood in front of his valuable collection, but his lips were twitching.
    “Some of them are chipped,” said Verderan innocently. “Lady Wraybourne, I appeal to you. Do you not have some common pieces we can hurl stones at?”
    “Now?” asked Jane blankly.
    “Come on, Jane,” said Sophie. “I’m sure the kitchen must be full of stuff they’d be glad to see the back of.”
    Beth saw Jane flash a look at her husband, but he must have given his approval for she began to enter into the spirit. “But you’re not breaking pots in here, or anywhere in the house for that matter. In the garden, I think. Nor am I asking the servants to do extra work this time of night. You,” she said, pointing at Verderan, “and you,” she pointed at Randal, “can come with me and carry.”
    The party divided in two at this point. The duke, the duchess, the marquess, and the Stanforths decided to return to the Towers and the earl went to see them on their way. The rest, caught in an adventurous spirit, invaded the kitchen in search of pots.
    It was perhaps fortunate that the Stenby staff had a parlor to sit in so that the arrival of the ladies and gentlemen in the kitchen did not throw anyone into hysterics. Mrs. Jolley, the cook, soon arrived to protect her preserve but Sophie’s words proved true. She remembered a box in the back of one of the storerooms where her predecessor had put discarded pottery twenty years before. There were bowls and jugs with tiny chips or cracked glazing, and pieces of pottery with awkward handles or dribbling spouts.
    “Never could bear to throw a thing out, she couldn’t,” the woman remarked. She turned with a frown. “Now, now, Master Randal,” she said to that gentleman, who was exploring with fascination the line of earthenware pots on a sideboard. “Keep your fingers to yourself, if you please.”
    He stopped with the look of an angelic child caught in a rare moment of naughtiness.
    Obviously, that was the impression Mrs. Jolley received, for she clucked slightly and lifted down a large crock. She opened it to reveal crisp, golden Shrewsbury biscuits. The ladies and gentlemen, despite having had a perfectly adequate dinner, fell upon them as if starving. The cook shared an indulgent look with Beth, who had not joined in the business. Then she turned to the others.
    “Many’s the time you young ones have come here looking for my Shrewsbury biscuits,” Mrs. Jolley said. “Now don’t you eat them all, though, or there’ll be none for tea tomorrow.”
    It was in a spirit of hilarity that the party made its way to the graveled driveway, arms full of pots and many a pocket full of biscuits. Even the staid Reverend Mortimer strolled beside Beth, fondly remembering kitchen raids of his youth. Lord Wraybourne caught up with them, stole some biscuits from his sister, and took Marius on a side trip to the kitchen garden to gather stones.
    Frederick and Mortimer volunteered to fetch two chairs and a board on which to stand the pots. Jane requested Verderan’s and Beth’s assistance in investigating the ancient box of discards. Beth looked back for a moment at Randal and Sophie, who were left standing alone in the moonlight. Ah well, they’d be better for a little privacy.
    “No work for us,” said Randal lightly. “Perhaps we should stay almost-married for the rest of our lives.”
    “No, thank you,” said Sophie sharply.
    “No,” he said softly. “Not a terribly good idea. ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then‘twere well it were done quickly.’” He turned her head with a finger on her chin and lowered his lips softly to hers. Those lips and