could not slumber with a magic coin in his bed. It poked. It prodded. It intruded upon his person until he could bear it no more. He’d slept on the rocky ground of the Guadarrama Mountains more comfortably than in this bed.
“What in blazes!” he muttered, searching for the intruding object. What was it? A protruding nail? A lost cuff link? Any number of small items came to mind as he searched madly under the coverlet till at last—
“Voilà!” He clasped the rough-edged object in his hand. He examined it closely. It glowed a shiny yellow in the afternoon sunlight, its magic qualities hidden cleverly beneath its smooth, golden surface. Pleased, he pocketed the yellow-boy telling himself it might bring him some much needed luck. He then pulled on his morning dressing jacket and as he did, glanced out the bedchamber’s dorm window.
Outside, the lady of the house, Lady Beatrice, stood by a bed of roses, pruning the dead blooms. Her hair was primly tied back, completely hidden by a straw longhorn hat. A pity that, he thought, observing her movements. It would’ve pleased him to see it in the sun flowing like long black waves of smoke down her back. He grimaced. He was waxing poetic over none other than the person who’d been the cause of his present cumbersome injury.
“She’s nothing but a shrew,” he told himself firmly. “Your reasoning must’ve been badly addled by Lord Patrick’s elixir, old boy. ’Tis a sorry day when you have difficulty telling the difference between a beautiful Irish colleen and a cold-hearted wench, such as she.”
A problem, no doubt, brought about by months of all-male companionship endured on that rock in Spain. Not to mention the strong potent drams consumed earlier that morn. Apparently, he had not learned how to resist the temptation of too many tumblers of spirits.
He put a hand to his temple and felt a dull throbbing there. It matched his confused state of mind. For which was the dark-haired lady below? Was she the enticing lass with the soft lips who’d been ready for a passionate embrace this morning? Or was she the aloof, frostbitten spinster who’d so rudely shot him out from under his mount? The perplexing questions were worthy of the boggy marshes of Ireland where he’d been unceremoniously thrown.
Befuddled, he reached for the cold compress that’d been thoughtfully left by his washbasin. He placed it on his forehead and laid his head back. His recline was short-lived, however, for the sound of the garden-gate swinging open alerted him to the presence of another entering the garden below.
A tall dandy strolled into the ladyship’s flower garden with the air of one who expected to be always the praised tulip in it. What’s this? A suitor for the lady’s cold hand? The earl rubbed his eyes clear of sleep. And without any thought for the lady’s privacy, the seasoned soldier drew out his field glass from his kit beside the bed and fixed them upon the colorful popinjay.
Immediately noted was the rather large beauty spot the jackanapes sported. It stood out, a small dark mound on the dandy’s pasty white chin.
“My word! ’Tis as big as my little finger!” James exclaimed out loud, focusing his field glass more firmly upon the byword for bad taste.
The object of his interest, one Squire Herbert Lynch by name, bowed over Lady Beatrice’s gloved hand. The dandy wore a superfine morning jacket of striped pink and yellow, with large shoulder pads. His long, spindly legs, the envy of any stork, were gartered in yellow silk clockwork stockings and beribboned in bright pink at his knees. Yellow shoes buckled with shiny brass, the kind one usually wore to a ball, completed the gentleman’s elegant attire. His yellow teeth smiled down at her from his pasty face.
Lady Beatrice still wore a pair of soiled garden gloves. Belatedly realizing his intention to make a gallant gesture over her hand, she removed one. The tall, thin pole of a gentleman buzzed around her
“What in blazes!” he muttered, searching for the intruding object. What was it? A protruding nail? A lost cuff link? Any number of small items came to mind as he searched madly under the coverlet till at last—
“Voilà!” He clasped the rough-edged object in his hand. He examined it closely. It glowed a shiny yellow in the afternoon sunlight, its magic qualities hidden cleverly beneath its smooth, golden surface. Pleased, he pocketed the yellow-boy telling himself it might bring him some much needed luck. He then pulled on his morning dressing jacket and as he did, glanced out the bedchamber’s dorm window.
Outside, the lady of the house, Lady Beatrice, stood by a bed of roses, pruning the dead blooms. Her hair was primly tied back, completely hidden by a straw longhorn hat. A pity that, he thought, observing her movements. It would’ve pleased him to see it in the sun flowing like long black waves of smoke down her back. He grimaced. He was waxing poetic over none other than the person who’d been the cause of his present cumbersome injury.
“She’s nothing but a shrew,” he told himself firmly. “Your reasoning must’ve been badly addled by Lord Patrick’s elixir, old boy. ’Tis a sorry day when you have difficulty telling the difference between a beautiful Irish colleen and a cold-hearted wench, such as she.”
A problem, no doubt, brought about by months of all-male companionship endured on that rock in Spain. Not to mention the strong potent drams consumed earlier that morn. Apparently, he had not learned how to resist the temptation of too many tumblers of spirits.
He put a hand to his temple and felt a dull throbbing there. It matched his confused state of mind. For which was the dark-haired lady below? Was she the enticing lass with the soft lips who’d been ready for a passionate embrace this morning? Or was she the aloof, frostbitten spinster who’d so rudely shot him out from under his mount? The perplexing questions were worthy of the boggy marshes of Ireland where he’d been unceremoniously thrown.
Befuddled, he reached for the cold compress that’d been thoughtfully left by his washbasin. He placed it on his forehead and laid his head back. His recline was short-lived, however, for the sound of the garden-gate swinging open alerted him to the presence of another entering the garden below.
A tall dandy strolled into the ladyship’s flower garden with the air of one who expected to be always the praised tulip in it. What’s this? A suitor for the lady’s cold hand? The earl rubbed his eyes clear of sleep. And without any thought for the lady’s privacy, the seasoned soldier drew out his field glass from his kit beside the bed and fixed them upon the colorful popinjay.
Immediately noted was the rather large beauty spot the jackanapes sported. It stood out, a small dark mound on the dandy’s pasty white chin.
“My word! ’Tis as big as my little finger!” James exclaimed out loud, focusing his field glass more firmly upon the byword for bad taste.
The object of his interest, one Squire Herbert Lynch by name, bowed over Lady Beatrice’s gloved hand. The dandy wore a superfine morning jacket of striped pink and yellow, with large shoulder pads. His long, spindly legs, the envy of any stork, were gartered in yellow silk clockwork stockings and beribboned in bright pink at his knees. Yellow shoes buckled with shiny brass, the kind one usually wore to a ball, completed the gentleman’s elegant attire. His yellow teeth smiled down at her from his pasty face.
Lady Beatrice still wore a pair of soiled garden gloves. Belatedly realizing his intention to make a gallant gesture over her hand, she removed one. The tall, thin pole of a gentleman buzzed around her
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