alone, turned tail and ran without even thanking her for the dance. Fleur’s nostrils quivered in mute fury. She retired from the floor with Breslau and Pamela.
Breslau tried to calm her. “Fleur, don’t let this—”
“Save your directions for the stage, milord. This is my affair.” She strode angrily off to the ladies cloakroom to recover her equanimity.
“Didn’t I tell you it would be exciting!” Pamela exclaimed. Her topaz eyes were gleaming with the unwonted pleasure of the melodrama.
“You’re in for even greater excitement before the night’s over. Fleur won’t take this sitting down.”
“I wonder why she started all this brouhaha. I don’t mean about Nigel—I acquit her of that. But if she’s a close friend of General Max’s, she must know how his mama would dislike the friendship.”
“Fleur doesn’t flinch from a little drama. Fur will fly before the night’s over,” Breslau replied. A frown pleated his brow as he watched her stormy exit.
“I had the impression at dinner that she was walking on eggs, and bending over backward not to upset the Raleighs.”
A smile quirked Breslau’s lip at this mixing of metaphors. “She was bound to crack a few shells, trying to walk on eggs in such an ungainly posture.”
“You know what I mean.”
They strolled to the refreshment parlor for a glass of ratafia, which inferior beverage was still popular in the provinces. Her recent encounters with drama made Pamela realize how dreary her life was. For a brief moment she began visualizing herself in Fleur’s shoes.
As Breslau led her to a seat she said, “It must be exciting, working in the theater. Producing plays is a game, really. I fancy anyone could do it.”
“Fancy again. It’s hard work.”
“Of course, it’s rather déclassé,” she added pensively.
Once more Breslau’s mobile brow rose to denote his disapproval. “Oh, I don’t mean for you, Lord Breslau. How quick you are to take offense, like a deb of uncertain provenance. I was thinking of myself as an actress. It can’t be infra dig for a gentleman to involve himself peripherally in the theater.”
The sensitive eyebrow rose higher. Breslau considered himself more or less the focus of Drury Lane.
His companion ignored these subtle signs of dissatisfaction. “Acting would be out of the question,” she continued. “Do you think it possible for a lady to, perhaps, write a play?”
“Unexceptionable,” he admitted. “Even the Religious Tract Society couldn’t object. Your mentor, Hanna More, turned her fine hand to it, with considerable success, I might add.”
“I wonder if I could do it.” Pamela mused.
Breslau was a trifle put out that the young lady was at so little pains to institute a flirtation. In this mood he said, “You’re too young, and unaware of life to try it for a few years yet. One must live before she puts her experiences to paper.”
“Nigel has no more experience than I have,” she snipped, and turned her head away to show Breslau she was unhappy with him.
He was quite simply amazed to find himself ignored by a country miss whom he had honored with his attentions. Not only ignored, she went out of her way to argue with him! She actually found it conceivable that standing up with him was an unpleasant duty. His eyes slid down to her profile, and he found himself gazing at a small, shell-like ear, as dainty as a newborn babe’s. A thick chestnut curl nestled on the ivory nape of her neck. He felt an urge to touch it.
While he sat, entranced at the feelings this farouche young lady was engendering in him, she suddenly turned to face him, and he was struck once more by the beauty of her eyes. “Who’s the gentleman with the marquise?” she asked.
He leaned forward and peered through the broad archway, to where Fleur stood in earnest conversation with a young stranger.
“He can’t be from Hatfield. I’ve never seen him,” Pamela said. She had the countryman’s eager interest in
Breslau tried to calm her. “Fleur, don’t let this—”
“Save your directions for the stage, milord. This is my affair.” She strode angrily off to the ladies cloakroom to recover her equanimity.
“Didn’t I tell you it would be exciting!” Pamela exclaimed. Her topaz eyes were gleaming with the unwonted pleasure of the melodrama.
“You’re in for even greater excitement before the night’s over. Fleur won’t take this sitting down.”
“I wonder why she started all this brouhaha. I don’t mean about Nigel—I acquit her of that. But if she’s a close friend of General Max’s, she must know how his mama would dislike the friendship.”
“Fleur doesn’t flinch from a little drama. Fur will fly before the night’s over,” Breslau replied. A frown pleated his brow as he watched her stormy exit.
“I had the impression at dinner that she was walking on eggs, and bending over backward not to upset the Raleighs.”
A smile quirked Breslau’s lip at this mixing of metaphors. “She was bound to crack a few shells, trying to walk on eggs in such an ungainly posture.”
“You know what I mean.”
They strolled to the refreshment parlor for a glass of ratafia, which inferior beverage was still popular in the provinces. Her recent encounters with drama made Pamela realize how dreary her life was. For a brief moment she began visualizing herself in Fleur’s shoes.
As Breslau led her to a seat she said, “It must be exciting, working in the theater. Producing plays is a game, really. I fancy anyone could do it.”
“Fancy again. It’s hard work.”
“Of course, it’s rather déclassé,” she added pensively.
Once more Breslau’s mobile brow rose to denote his disapproval. “Oh, I don’t mean for you, Lord Breslau. How quick you are to take offense, like a deb of uncertain provenance. I was thinking of myself as an actress. It can’t be infra dig for a gentleman to involve himself peripherally in the theater.”
The sensitive eyebrow rose higher. Breslau considered himself more or less the focus of Drury Lane.
His companion ignored these subtle signs of dissatisfaction. “Acting would be out of the question,” she continued. “Do you think it possible for a lady to, perhaps, write a play?”
“Unexceptionable,” he admitted. “Even the Religious Tract Society couldn’t object. Your mentor, Hanna More, turned her fine hand to it, with considerable success, I might add.”
“I wonder if I could do it.” Pamela mused.
Breslau was a trifle put out that the young lady was at so little pains to institute a flirtation. In this mood he said, “You’re too young, and unaware of life to try it for a few years yet. One must live before she puts her experiences to paper.”
“Nigel has no more experience than I have,” she snipped, and turned her head away to show Breslau she was unhappy with him.
He was quite simply amazed to find himself ignored by a country miss whom he had honored with his attentions. Not only ignored, she went out of her way to argue with him! She actually found it conceivable that standing up with him was an unpleasant duty. His eyes slid down to her profile, and he found himself gazing at a small, shell-like ear, as dainty as a newborn babe’s. A thick chestnut curl nestled on the ivory nape of her neck. He felt an urge to touch it.
While he sat, entranced at the feelings this farouche young lady was engendering in him, she suddenly turned to face him, and he was struck once more by the beauty of her eyes. “Who’s the gentleman with the marquise?” she asked.
He leaned forward and peered through the broad archway, to where Fleur stood in earnest conversation with a young stranger.
“He can’t be from Hatfield. I’ve never seen him,” Pamela said. She had the countryman’s eager interest in
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