Vivian Roycroft Read Online Free
Author: Mischief on Albemarle
his head. "Is there anyone…?"
But it was obvious where his question was heading. Beryl shook her head before he finished and, for the first time in her life, told her father a cold-blooded lie. "Not in that manner, no, sir." It was simply too humiliating to admit that the man upon whom she'd set her heart couldn't even notice her without starting an argument. But her innards trembled at such willful disobedience.
"Hmm." He pursed his lips. "No one can say you are not beautiful. Accomplished. Polished. Intelligent. There can be no complaints regarding your education, breeding, dancing, playing, singing, painting, presentation, mode of dress…"
This conversational topic's intended destination was just as clear as that of the preceding one. The room warmed — no, her face did. She had to be turning that peculiar shade of pink that clashed so horribly with her copper curls, which meant this tête-à-tête could become no more embarrassing and she might as well admit her shortcoming and get to the denouement .
Papa waved a hand. "…and so all that's left…"
She cleared her throat. "…are my character flaws of stubbornness, ill temper, sarcasm…"
His lips twitched. But his eyes remained serious. "The arguments with young Fitzwilliam must stop."
He couldn't be serious. She'd been trying to stop the arguments with Fitz for six years. Certainly none of them could be blamed upon her. Never once had she snapped, unless he'd first baited her beyond forbearance. But explaining that to Papa—
"At least in public."
Of course. "I never start the arguments."
He held up a hand. "That matters not, my girl. This Season, what matters is how you are perceived by good society. If the public bickering ceases forthwith, and if from this moment forward you present a composed and serene face at every gathering, then it's possible, just possible, the earlier contretemps will be dismissed as the last of childhood's tantrums. Otherwise…" He drew the word out as if tasting it, and Beryl's blood chilled. Not a good sign. "Otherwise, we may find ourselves discussing the necessity of your spending the remainder of the Season in Suffolk."
She froze. He wouldn't. He had to be bluffing.
His eyes testified otherwise.
"I know you enjoy the country, Beryl."
She chewed her lip. "I do. Just not during the Season."
"Motivation." He rose, took her hand, and drew her up with him, kissing her forehead and brushing a playful finger through her curls. "No pressure and no undue censure. But your direction in the near future depends upon your behavior, not upon my goodwill."
He was serious.
****
Too many times Fitz's handkerchief had staunched her tears, costing the golden and silver threads their gleam, the red ones their depth. Even with the early spring sunshine falling through her bedroom window and highlighting the monogram, the colors seemed faded and tired. She tilted it this way and that, held it near the glass and pulled it back. But nothing she tried breathed new life into the fine linen, nor into the silken threads.
She sighed and dropped it into her lap, leaning her forehead against the cool glass. The handkerchief's worn-out state didn't symbolize her love for Fitz. Only her equally exhausted emotions and spirit.
The monogram did not include the entire Fitzwilliam coat of arms, of course; one could only feel sympathy for any needlewoman ordered to stitch those two practically naked wild men and their ghastly clubs. No, it was just the earl's coronet with its red velvet cap, the barred silver helmet with its open crown rising above, the initials FGF in an arc atop them all, and a dangling, frayed thread left a pale line through the midst of one golden strawberry leaf.
It seemed a fitting symbol for her predicament.
No pressure to marry; of course not. But Belinda could be a terror at the best of times, and Papa would not play favorites nor mediate between them. If she didn't find a husband this Season, or the next at the latest,
But it was obvious where his question was heading. Beryl shook her head before he finished and, for the first time in her life, told her father a cold-blooded lie. "Not in that manner, no, sir." It was simply too humiliating to admit that the man upon whom she'd set her heart couldn't even notice her without starting an argument. But her innards trembled at such willful disobedience.
"Hmm." He pursed his lips. "No one can say you are not beautiful. Accomplished. Polished. Intelligent. There can be no complaints regarding your education, breeding, dancing, playing, singing, painting, presentation, mode of dress…"
This conversational topic's intended destination was just as clear as that of the preceding one. The room warmed — no, her face did. She had to be turning that peculiar shade of pink that clashed so horribly with her copper curls, which meant this tête-à-tête could become no more embarrassing and she might as well admit her shortcoming and get to the denouement .
Papa waved a hand. "…and so all that's left…"
She cleared her throat. "…are my character flaws of stubbornness, ill temper, sarcasm…"
His lips twitched. But his eyes remained serious. "The arguments with young Fitzwilliam must stop."
He couldn't be serious. She'd been trying to stop the arguments with Fitz for six years. Certainly none of them could be blamed upon her. Never once had she snapped, unless he'd first baited her beyond forbearance. But explaining that to Papa—
"At least in public."
Of course. "I never start the arguments."
He held up a hand. "That matters not, my girl. This Season, what matters is how you are perceived by good society. If the public bickering ceases forthwith, and if from this moment forward you present a composed and serene face at every gathering, then it's possible, just possible, the earlier contretemps will be dismissed as the last of childhood's tantrums. Otherwise…" He drew the word out as if tasting it, and Beryl's blood chilled. Not a good sign. "Otherwise, we may find ourselves discussing the necessity of your spending the remainder of the Season in Suffolk."
She froze. He wouldn't. He had to be bluffing.
His eyes testified otherwise.
"I know you enjoy the country, Beryl."
She chewed her lip. "I do. Just not during the Season."
"Motivation." He rose, took her hand, and drew her up with him, kissing her forehead and brushing a playful finger through her curls. "No pressure and no undue censure. But your direction in the near future depends upon your behavior, not upon my goodwill."
He was serious.
****
Too many times Fitz's handkerchief had staunched her tears, costing the golden and silver threads their gleam, the red ones their depth. Even with the early spring sunshine falling through her bedroom window and highlighting the monogram, the colors seemed faded and tired. She tilted it this way and that, held it near the glass and pulled it back. But nothing she tried breathed new life into the fine linen, nor into the silken threads.
She sighed and dropped it into her lap, leaning her forehead against the cool glass. The handkerchief's worn-out state didn't symbolize her love for Fitz. Only her equally exhausted emotions and spirit.
The monogram did not include the entire Fitzwilliam coat of arms, of course; one could only feel sympathy for any needlewoman ordered to stitch those two practically naked wild men and their ghastly clubs. No, it was just the earl's coronet with its red velvet cap, the barred silver helmet with its open crown rising above, the initials FGF in an arc atop them all, and a dangling, frayed thread left a pale line through the midst of one golden strawberry leaf.
It seemed a fitting symbol for her predicament.
No pressure to marry; of course not. But Belinda could be a terror at the best of times, and Papa would not play favorites nor mediate between them. If she didn't find a husband this Season, or the next at the latest,
Readers choose
John Philpin
Lauri Robinson
John Larkin
Belinda Rapley
Jackie French
Jus Accardo
Bianca D'Arc
Danika Steel