Taffeta & Hotspur

“Well, I thought him good looking,” she replied.

He eyed her suspiciously, “And so the Lady Taffeta collects her handsome beaux?” His voice was dry and touched with irritation.

“Now what does that mean?”

“Evidently you take it upon yourself to give as good as you get. The town bucks preen and ogle, and you feel entitled to the do the same. Town bucks collect pretties, do you feel it your right to collect a list of hearts?”

She suddenly went serious. “That is not nice. Odd that you should take such a notion into your head. I rather thought you were up to snuff.” The tease had returned to her gray eyes. “You see my lord, I don’t ape cruel behavior.”

Caught, he wouldn’t give it up. “You wouldn’t lead a man on?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then what of Fenmore?” he replied triumphantly. “I rather thought you were leading him an excellent dance the other night.”

She put up her brow, “When I danced with Fenmore, he did the leading, and it was most enjoyable.” With this, she read out loud, “Ah, the Royal Exchange!”

Chapter Seven

Two days had passed since Lady Taffeta’s excursion with Tarrant, and she had not seen or heard from him since.

Moping about wasn’t her style, and yet, she felt a fit of the ‘blue devils’ start to overtake her mood. It was time to own up to what she felt, and what she felt, she conceded, was a great deal more than infatuation.

She loved everything about him. His great big, hulking good looks. His dark, mysteriously lit eyes she could never quite read and kept her guessing all the time. She loved the way he moved, like a stalking wild beast, graceful and yet powerful. And she loved his kisses, his touching, and wanted more.

What was she going to do? He was a rogue and had a slew of women all vying for his affection and his bed. He didn’t want her; not really, for he hadn’t even called in her marker, and it didn’t appear as though he meant to do so.

He probably thought she was nothing more than a silly schoolgirl. Maybe her kisses had done nothing for him? Maybe he thought she would be inadequate in bed, and on that score, he might be right. What did she know about the art of making love? She shook her head over the problem. Naught—except what she and her friends had whispered about and giggled over in the dark of night when she had been at school.

However, her aunt constantly clapped her hands together and declared she was in heaven. Sissy told her the rakehell Hotspur had gotten her coined the ‘incomparable’ amongst the haute ton. How absurd. But apparently Tarrant had never before given a marriageable chit so much public attention, and had everyone jabbering with excitement and speculation.

The last two mornings had been overloaded with callers, and she was heartily weary of the entire social scene. Each time Jarvis would appear, she would look hopefully, only to find it wasn’t Hotspur…

And her dear Cathy! That was another problem she was going to have to solve. Something awful had happened to Cathy, for although she had tried, she could not get her to speak about it. All she knew was it had something to do with Bruton, and Bruton was ever lurking about making her friend uncomfortable.

Taffeta wasn’t sure what to make of him, but flirted with him in an effort to get to the bottom of Cathy’s distress, hoping he might let something slip during their conversations.

Third on her list of matters to dissect and solve was the gentleman Lord James Fenmore. He was besotted with Cathy, but Cathy kept him at a distance, and he had adopted Taffy as his confident. He was forever seeking her out and then mooning over Catherine and asking her what next he should do to win dear Catherine’s approval.

Then, if those things weren’t enough of a trial for any one young woman in her first London season, there was Nigel and Seth.

Her brother Seth had come of age and now had sole guardianship of her, and he had been playing the superior card all morning, coming on strong, and she was heartily sick of it.

She sighed; for she would just have to let it all slide for the moment as her aunt had already raised a glass of champagne—to her brother.

“’Tis only eleven o’clock…” Her voice, even to herself, sounded as though she was whining, and she sighed again. She picked up a glass, rolled her eyes, and joined in the birthday toast to her brother.

A sip later, she wrinkled her nose but said, “Hmm, lovely…”

Seth laughed, and Nigel said, “Another toast from me, nephew. Here’s to you, Seth. Thank Jupiter, the brat is now yours to order about.”

“No one can order me about.” Taffy rounded on them. “The very idea,” she said, teasing back and then turned to Nigel. “Look who is going all fashionable—that is an oriental knot you have sporting your tie.

“Well, one must keep up if one wants to be taken seriously, and I do think our arguments in Parliament have not been for naught,” retorted Nigel.

“What are you talking about?” Seth looked scornfully at him. “After you gave your speech, they called you a radical.”

“Yes, but then Lord Byron got up, and his speech silenced everyone. It was quite beautiful.”