Shall We Dance?

“Wot?”

The earl turned back to Amelia. “Dear Miss Fredericks, much as I abhor such a public confession, I shall answer your question. I could deny you nothing, you see. I…well, this is embarrassing, isn’t it? I chanced to see a broadsheet heralding the glorious and most welcome return of Queen Caroline to our shores, and a female figure was captured in the etching…engraving…whatever those things are called.”

Behind him, Clive coughed into his fist.

“To continue,” the earl said, turning slightly away from Clive. “So…so taken was I by the face the engraver had captured that I knew, simply knew, I had to find a way to meet that face. That face that is so much more than any artist, no matter how talented, could ever hope to capture completely. I begged everyone for a name, until I learned it, then rented that sorry boat on the desperate chance that I might catch a glimpse of you. I did, praise the gods, and demanded I be rowed to shore so I could approach you, hat in hand—”

“Literally,” Amelia said, looking at the curly brimmed beaver he held. She had to say something. It was either that, or she’d burst into hysterical laughter. Did the man think she’d cut her wisdoms yesterday? He was lying, and laying it on much too thick and rare for even a hope of being believed.

“Yes, of course. Literally. In hopes I could somehow wrangle an introduction. If not an introduction, then perhaps as I’ve already said, just a glimpse, a single sight. Forgive me.”

Clive stepped close to His Lordship and whispered out of one side of his mouth. “Pitiful, pitiful. Thought yer could come up with better than that, M’Lord. Crikey.”

Amelia, like the earl, pretended not to hear.

“Clive? I thought you were on your way up the hill, hopefully to be stripped and wrapped in a blanket. Far be it from me to complain, but you’re beginning to smell very much like a wet sheep.”

“I suggest we all adjourn to the residence, My Lord,” Amelia said. “I should like to hear more of how taken you were with the drawing of my most ordinary face. Perhaps you’ve written an ode to my chin?”

“She’s onta yer, sir. I don’t think I can stay here and watch, that’s a fact,” Clive said, then waved for the footmen to lead the way. “Hop-to, you buggers. You heard the lady. Drop those baskets and move yer dew-beaters. March.”

“A military man, you understand. Very colorful language, those soldiers, or so I’m told,” the earl explained as the footmen all but ran into each other in their haste to obey Clive. “It’s that air of command. Impressed me all hollow, I must say.”

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