The Lady Loves ...
a ripping yarn by Scarlett Madison.
© Scarlett Madison, 2007.
(well, you asked for romance ... )
a ripping yarn by Scarlett Madison.
The band struck up another waltz, and he moved in fast while he had the chance, pushing all in his way to one side. Georgiana, his Georgiana, bejewelled and beautiful, glittered like an exotic treasure by the light of the chandelier. He thought his heart would burst with love for her, and he determined there and then that she was his, and no rival would have her!
He took hold of her elegant, silken gloved hand, and lifted it to his lips, brushing his perfectly-groomed moustache across her fingers. “Lady Pilkington-Derwent,” he growled, a thin veneer of formality struggling to mask his seething passion. “Dance with me!”
George half-smiled. “Lord Winchester.” She turned to her companion. “Crown Prince, do excuse me. I fear that Winchester here will wait no longer. Thank you for your kind invitation to the palace on my return. May we continue our conversation then?”
“Of course, dear Lady.” The Crown Prince bowed, and moved aside, displaying all the gracious manners that her prospective dance partner had forgotten. Silently, George let herself be escorted to the ballroom floor.
As the music drifted, Winchester pulled her close. “Damn it, woman, I must have you! Marry me! I cannot eat, sleep or concentrate at cards, for the memory of our night of passion!”
George winced as he trod squarely on her left foot. “Nor, it seems, can you dance. Winchester, get a grip on yourself. It is not going to happen. I sail at eight for the Middle East.”
He pushed her away, holding her at arms’ length, staring wildly at her. “No! I forbid it! You are mine, all mine!”
“Winchester, we have no future together,” George replied. “Last night was a mere bagatelle, a trifle. We both enjoyed ourselves, so don’t spoil it with your demands. A man like you will never tame my wild spirit!”
“But my darling Georgiana, I am afire! I can never have another!” wailed Lord Winchester.
“Then it looks like getting a grip on yourself really is the only option open to you,” snapped George. “Get up off your knees, man. People are staring at you.”
With that, she turned on her heel and swept away in a fury of perfumed velvet, leaving him sprawled on the dance floor. As she passed a handsome footman, she whispered that Lord Winchester had been taken unwell, and watched the servant’s retreating figure as he hurried over to help the floundering fool. “Mmmmmm ... and if you perform your duties well, young man, there could be a hefty reward in it,” she murmured after him.
Lord Barclay was at her side in an instant. “May I be of service?”
She linked her arm through his. “Yes, I rather think you may. Let’s dance.”
Barclay was as cool and collected as Winchester was hot and intemperate, and George rather liked him. What a refreshing change it was to dance with a sprightly young man who didn’t keep pawing at her. They danced until the band tired, and then sat on the terrace throughout the long night with bottle and glass, exchanging stories of old Hindustan, and the quest for the Ratzenwilder Emerald. As the dark of the night sky lightened to pink and gold, George reluctantly tore herself away from her most enticing companion. She even went so far as to wonder if she had finally met someone she could fall deliriously in love with, and forget the besotted old Winchesters of this world. Although she would never admit it, she wasn’t getting any younger, and maybe it was time to settle down. She hardly dared to hope that he might feel the same. With a coquettish glance over her shoulder, she blew Barclay a kiss that she hoped would be a promise of times to come, and took her leave.
Lord Barclay sat back in his chair, and drained the last of his fine single malt. His butler moved forward from the shadows to clear the table. “At last, Wilson,” said Barclay. “I thought the old bat would never go. She’s as rich as Croesus, but twice as boring.” He stretched back in his chair, and growled appreciatively as the handsome young footman nipped past them across the terrace and back into the main banqueting hall. “Now that, Wilson, is a little more like it.”
He took hold of her elegant, silken gloved hand, and lifted it to his lips, brushing his perfectly-groomed moustache across her fingers. “Lady Pilkington-Derwent,” he growled, a thin veneer of formality struggling to mask his seething passion. “Dance with me!”
George half-smiled. “Lord Winchester.” She turned to her companion. “Crown Prince, do excuse me. I fear that Winchester here will wait no longer. Thank you for your kind invitation to the palace on my return. May we continue our conversation then?”
“Of course, dear Lady.” The Crown Prince bowed, and moved aside, displaying all the gracious manners that her prospective dance partner had forgotten. Silently, George let herself be escorted to the ballroom floor.
As the music drifted, Winchester pulled her close. “Damn it, woman, I must have you! Marry me! I cannot eat, sleep or concentrate at cards, for the memory of our night of passion!”
George winced as he trod squarely on her left foot. “Nor, it seems, can you dance. Winchester, get a grip on yourself. It is not going to happen. I sail at eight for the Middle East.”
He pushed her away, holding her at arms’ length, staring wildly at her. “No! I forbid it! You are mine, all mine!”
“Winchester, we have no future together,” George replied. “Last night was a mere bagatelle, a trifle. We both enjoyed ourselves, so don’t spoil it with your demands. A man like you will never tame my wild spirit!”
“But my darling Georgiana, I am afire! I can never have another!” wailed Lord Winchester.
“Then it looks like getting a grip on yourself really is the only option open to you,” snapped George. “Get up off your knees, man. People are staring at you.”
With that, she turned on her heel and swept away in a fury of perfumed velvet, leaving him sprawled on the dance floor. As she passed a handsome footman, she whispered that Lord Winchester had been taken unwell, and watched the servant’s retreating figure as he hurried over to help the floundering fool. “Mmmmmm ... and if you perform your duties well, young man, there could be a hefty reward in it,” she murmured after him.
Lord Barclay was at her side in an instant. “May I be of service?”
She linked her arm through his. “Yes, I rather think you may. Let’s dance.”
Barclay was as cool and collected as Winchester was hot and intemperate, and George rather liked him. What a refreshing change it was to dance with a sprightly young man who didn’t keep pawing at her. They danced until the band tired, and then sat on the terrace throughout the long night with bottle and glass, exchanging stories of old Hindustan, and the quest for the Ratzenwilder Emerald. As the dark of the night sky lightened to pink and gold, George reluctantly tore herself away from her most enticing companion. She even went so far as to wonder if she had finally met someone she could fall deliriously in love with, and forget the besotted old Winchesters of this world. Although she would never admit it, she wasn’t getting any younger, and maybe it was time to settle down. She hardly dared to hope that he might feel the same. With a coquettish glance over her shoulder, she blew Barclay a kiss that she hoped would be a promise of times to come, and took her leave.
Lord Barclay sat back in his chair, and drained the last of his fine single malt. His butler moved forward from the shadows to clear the table. “At last, Wilson,” said Barclay. “I thought the old bat would never go. She’s as rich as Croesus, but twice as boring.” He stretched back in his chair, and growled appreciatively as the handsome young footman nipped past them across the terrace and back into the main banqueting hall. “Now that, Wilson, is a little more like it.”
© Scarlett Madison, 2007.
(well, you asked for romance ... )
1 comment:
These parodies, with Lady Pilkington-Derwent, are amusing. References to adventures such as searching for the "Parasol of Ashkabad" or "Rameses II’s legendary Golden Dentures", in your first posting and the quest for "the Ratzenwilder Emerald" make me think that Miss Marple has met Indiana Jones here. Will you continue to develop Lady Pilkington-Derwent? I think you really have some entertaining potential with this character!
Izzy
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