Taffeta & Hotspur

A maid arrived with a tray of refreshments, and Taffy laughed to herself as she watched her aunt make certain everyone was served something as the jovial banter continued.

Tarrant continued to sit close to her, and looked deeply into her eyes whenever the opportunity arose.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

“Doing what?” he asked with amusement.

“Looking at me like that … like you … want to devour me. ‘Tis not seemly—especially in my aunt’s morning room.”

“Would it be seemly somewhere else?”

She giggled. “Nooo, but do stop…”

“I can not,” he answered. “I was not aware that was how I was looking at you.”

“Oh, downright fib…” She gasped.

He laughed and took a pinch of air between his thumb and forefinger, “Just a little one, sunbeam…” He chuckled and leaned back against his hardwood chair, “Right then, tell me, are you enjoying London? I seem to remember you declared you would not, could not…?” The twinkle was back in his eyes.

She dimpled up at him. “Ah, apparently I am more superficial than I thought, for I am enjoying London so far … immensely.” She then eyed him quizzically and said, “Have you brought your high perch phaeton to town, my lord?”

“So you have already heard about my phaeton?” He grinned ruefully and touched her nose.

She found she liked his touch far too much, even on her nose. She regarded him playfully and added, “Indeed, and the matched dapple grays to draw it. I am told you are the best whipster in the land.”

“For once I am thankful for rumors if it wins me your company in my phaeton.”

She laughed sweetly, “Oh yes, I would love a ride…”

“We can go right now.” He encouraged her with a grin.

“No, how can we just leave everyone and go? Impossible.”

“Impossible? Not at all—we will just excuse ourselves.”

“Oh, my lord,” she objected with a laugh. “I am persuaded you don’t have your phaeton standing outside. That would never do for such high stepping horses.”

“You are correct, but I can have them hitched and ready in no time … shall I leave and return for you?”

She pushed at his arm, forgetting herself, forgetting what lay between them, forgetting that very soon he would call her t

o his bed.

“Ah sunbeam, when you look at me like that, all I want to do is…”

Jarvis appeared in the doorway, and because no one paid him the least heed, he cleared his throat and loudly announced, “The Marquis of Bruton.”

All conversation seemed to float into the atmosphere and die as though a sudden fog had descended, and Taffy heard her aunt say under her breath, “Oh no, oh dear…”

Taffy noted her aunt’s reaction, but what she found more worrying was her friend Catherine’s response to his name. Miss Frome went white, and sat quite rigidly beside her, and Taffy bent to her to ask, “Cath… Cathy, what is it?”

“Naught.” Her friend’s voice was shaky at best.

Taffy watched the marquis with interest. He was certainly elegantly dressed. His dark green superfine had been molded to his lean form. His pale cream breeches looked as though they had been painted onto his long legs. His boots sported gold tassels at their heart shaped tops. His face conveyed an expression of boredom, and dissipation, of fast, hard living, but even so he was a handsome buck much in his heyday—or so it seemed to her.

Catherine’s hand strayed into hers, and Taffy felt her friend tremble. Faith, she was going to get to the bottom of this. What was it about Bruton that so worried Cath? Tension seemed to infiltrate the atmosphere and hang like a heavy dark cloud. Obviously Bruton was not liked by the company who surrounded her.

Taffy got to her feet and walked over to her brother, she knew instinctively Bruton would follow, and she wanted to stop him from looking toward Catherine, for she acted like he was frightening her to death.