Miss Darby's Duenna by Sheri Cobb South Page B

protest.
    At last the curtain rose on the first act, revealing the famed comedienne Violetta as an unlikely shipwreck victim, her sodden garments clinging to her every curve while her ebony curls remained miraculously dry.
    “Oh, how lovely she is!” Olivia remarked enviously, leaning nearer the marquess in order to see past Sir Harry’s plumes.
    “Do you find her so?” asked Lord Mannerly. “She is accounted a great beauty, but I confess in my present company, I find the fair Violetta’s charm quite escapes me.”
    Whatever Olivia might have said to this piece of flattery was drowned out by a fit of coughing from the front of the box. Mannerly was right, damn his eyes, thought Sir Harry. Compared to his Livvy, Violetta’s beauty seemed overblown, as if she were trying a bit too hard to enchant. Finding nothing on the stage to interest him, he had no alternative but to listen to Lord Mannerly pay flowery compliments to his fiancée. When at last the curtain fell signaling the interim, Sir Harry judged it high time to put an end to the provoking tête-à-tête.
    “Miss Darby, my dear, my poor old bones feel quite stiff,” he said, lending authenticity to the claim by rising unsteadily to his feet. “Will you give me your arm for a turn about the lobby?”
    Olivia obediently rose and offered the dowager her escort. As the pair moved toward the curtained entrance to the box, Lord Mannerly followed Miss Darby’s progress appreciatively. It was, he considered, one of the happier consequences of the current fashion for narrow skirts that the gentle sway of a lady’s hips was evident as she walked—a sight which had been concealed by fuller skirts twenty years earlier when, as a lad of sixteen, he had first discovered the gentler sex. Shifting his gaze slightly, he noticed that the alluring motion was curiously absent from Lady Hawthorne’s shuffling gait. Curious, too, that while the old lady and her grandson were so much alike in other ways. Lady Hawthorne was a tall woman, while Sir Harry’s height was not much above the average: In fact, Mannerly supposed them to be very nearly of a height, perhaps about five feet nine inches.
    “An interesting woman, your grandmother,” he remarked idly to Georgina. “She seems quite attached to Miss Darby.”
    “Yes, I believe he—that is, Grandmama is very fond of Olivia,” improvised that young lady, although her grandmother and Miss Darby had in fact never met. Only Georgina’s hands, nervously twisting the strings of her reticule around one gloved finger, betrayed her agitation at finding herself alone with her brother’s adversary. “The engagement is one of long standing, you know.”
    Lord Mannerly nodded. “Miss Darby once intimated as much.” He judged it time to turn the subject, but had little experience in—or indeed, desire for—conversing with schoolgirls.  “And what of you, Miss Hawthorne? Have you any long-standing arrangements of your own?”
    “Yes—well, the attachment is not long-standing, but I am to marry Mr. James Collier, the vicar of our parish.”
    The marquess’s only response was a snort of derisive laughter.
    Georgina’s eyes narrowed. “You find this amusing, my lord?”
    “Vastly. Never have I met anyone who looked less suited to a living in the Church. The flames of hell, my dear, could bum no brighter than your fiery locks.”
    Up came Miss Hawthorne’s chin, all nervousness replaced by outrage. “And never have I received such an unhandsome compliment!”
    “You must acquit me, Miss Hawthorne. I assure you, I never pay compliments. I speak only the truth as I see it.”
    Georgina gave a disdainful sniff. “I see. Then I suppose the praise you see fit to lavish on Miss Darby is something in the way of a scientific observation.”
    “Jealous, Miss Hawthorne?” asked Lord Mannerly with a mocking smile. “For shame! What would your vicar say?”
    “I am not jealous, and I have no desire for your admiration!” cried