by Kate Archer
“Let us hope some other things have been exaggerated,” Lord Cabot said.
“It was in the newspaper,” Lord Lockwood said to Lord Cabot. “I cannot fathom how you still hold out hope that there is no engagement.”
“Still,” Lord Ashworth said, “it seems a rum sort of game. The man was injured and helpless, they had him a veritable captive in that house. Who knows what a man might agree to while suffering a concussion?”
“Undue influence,” Lord Grayson said, nodding knowingly. “Course, if he was to try to wrangle his way out now, he might be slapped with a breach of promise.”
The men around the table fairly shuddered at the mention of breach of promise.
“She might call it off, though,” Cabot said hopefully. “She already shoots bird, I don’t suppose she’d mind becoming a jilt.”
“The fact is,” Dalton said to Edwin, “if you carry through with the marriage, it will only encourage our fathers in this ridiculous pact of theirs.”
Edwin had listened to his friends’ outrageous statements with equanimity. Nothing they’d said had surprised him in the least. How could it, when he had himself been in a similar frame of mind so recently?
He waited patiently as his friends flailed this way and that, grasping at even the slimmest hope that might present itself. Lockwood speculated that Miss Knightsbridge might suddenly realize that Hampton was not such a good catch after all. Cabot wondered if Miss Knightsbridge had even yet noticed Hampton’s sad lack of humor and wit. Grayson concurred and postulated that it would dawn on her soon enough that he was a dead bore. Finally running out of ways to abuse him, they fell into silence.
Edwin had remained standing, his arms clasped behind his back. He smiled and said, “Get married, you idiots.”
With that, he turned and strode from the room.
The End
About the Author
By the time I was eleven, my Irish Nana and I had formed a book club of sorts. On a timetable only known to herself, Nana would grab her blackthorn walking stick and steam down to the local Woolworth’s. There, she would buy the latest Barbara Cartland romance, hurry home to read it accompanied by viciously strong wine, (Wild Irish Rose, if you’re wondering) and then pass the book on to me. Though I was not particularly interested in real boys yet, I was very interested in the gentlemen in those stories—daring, bold, and often enraging and unaccountable. After my Barbara Cartland phase, I went on to Georgette Heyer, Jane Austen and so many other gifted authors blessed with the ability to bring the Georgian and Regency eras to life.
I would like nothing more than to time travel back to the Regency (and time travel back to my twenties as long as we’re going somewhere) to take my chances at a ball. Who would take the first? Who would escort me into supper? What sort of meaningful looks would be exchanged? I would hope, having made the trip, to encounter a gentleman who would give me a very hard time. He ought to be vexatious in the extreme, and worth every vexation, to make the journey worthwhile.
I most likely won’t be able to work out the time travel gambit, so I will content myself with writing stories of adventure and romance in my beloved time period. There are lives to be created, marvelous gowns to wear, jewels to don, instant attractions that inevitably come with a difficulty, and hearts to break before putting them back together again. In traditional Regency fashion, my stories are clean—the action happens in a drawing room, rather than a bedroom.
As I muse over what will happen next to my H and h, and wish I were there with them, I will occasionally remind myself that it’s also nice to have a microwave, Netflix, cheese popcorn, and steaming hot showers.
Come see me on Facebook! @KateArcherAuthor
