Love's Refrain by Patricia Kiyono Page B

And yes… there she was, just ahead, near the corner with Wych Street, her scarlet pelisse askew and flaring to either side like a billowing flame. With grinning, red-faced Finian Fitzwilliam on her heels.
    Just as he should be.
    When His Grace had first seen Beryl Wentworth, he'd thought her a little slip of a waif with enormous eyes and copper curls. Now that he'd done his homework, he'd modified his opinion: she was a little slip of a waif with enormous eyes, copper curls, and a flaming temper to match. In the weeks he'd been observing the pseudo-couple of Miss Beryl and Mr. Fitzwilliam, they hadn't yet enjoyed an entire entertainment of any variety without a violent emotional tempest exploding between them. Like the sun rising in the east and falling in the west, one could set a clock by their societal interruptus .
    His Grace slipped into position behind them, stretching his longer legs to match her furious pace as she stalked across Holywell, heedless of the cursing from a curricle's driver as he hauled his matched Hackneys to a slithering stop. No need to get close; neither elegant combatant chose to modify their raised voices, and a number of merchants and walkers along the Strand turned and stared at their onrushing rampage as she led them past the church's pilastered and niched southern side.
    "I can't believe you compared that horrid wig to Violetta's curls. They're nothing like and you know it." Deft hands straightened the scarlet pelisse's fur collar without slowing. The hemline seemed glued to Fitzwilliam's brown trousers by the winds of her passage.
    "They're much like and any honest person will back the opinion, sure as I'm standing. Or walking. Same shape, same size, same ridiculous sausageyness—"
    "Ooo-oh!" She whirled on Fitzwilliam, bringing their little caravan to a halt in the middle of the narrow, busy sidewalk and jabbing one exquisite finger into his cravat. With her outerwear, copper curls, and sparks flying from her eyes, she looked like a torch, flaring brightly, among the ordinary townspeople edging around their little scene. "That was a comedic wig, designed to look ridiculous. Violetta's curls weren't. She's very proud of her appearance—"
    "Well, perhaps she shouldn't be, elegant lass though she be—"
    The clear choice His Grace faced was to walk past their combat zone or pause and not even pretend to not notice them. No need to consider, really. His choice was not the most polite, perhaps, but far more entertaining than the alternative.
    "—and perhaps you shouldn't be such an outrageous, opinionated boor—"
    "—and perhaps Miss de Lisle should find a new abigail—"
    "—I cannot believe you would so wantonly injure her in such an unfeeling manner—"
    "—or at least look through a few more fashion plates; surely she'll find a more appealing hairstyle if she just tries, all sorts of other ladies do—"
    Both of them seemed to become aware of his looming, listening, vastly entertained presence at the same moment. Fitzwilliam glanced up with a scowl. Miss Beryl's eyes widened even further, huge glistening green pools a man could swim in and never need to come up for air. For a fraction of a second she seemed nonplussed.
    Then her glance cut sideways to Fitzwilliam's red face. His intensely scowling red face. Just for a moment. And then she flashed him a smile and dipped a curtsey.
    Brilliant. She knew how the game should be played.
    "Good day, your grace."
    "Miss Beryl, good day." He bowed over her hand, breathed gently onto the underside of her wrist, and let his fingers trail through hers as she shivered deliciously and withdrew. "It's been far too long. Was it Lady Baldwin's soiree?"
    Another flashing smile, accompanied by a delighted dimple. "That was only last week."
    "Indeed yes. Far, far too long a time." He'd maneuvered for the introduction between the Baldwin niece's Italian aria and her accomplished, intricate performance on the floor harp.