"Her father, Lucien Savarol, begged me to take her under my wing for one Season. I didn't at first wonder why the just one-Season stipulation, but I discovered the reason quickly enough. Diana refuses to stay here longer. I fear I won't find a husband for her. She's very prickly, you see, very proud, and at the moment she hates it here." She gave him one of her patented looks. "Then you come in and act like a fool. It is too bad of you, Lyonel. I had hoped that you would take the girl under your wing and sprinkle some of your consequence over her."
"She is ill-mannered," he said.
"Not until you baited her."
"Her looks are dreadful."
"Idiot! That blond hair of hers is incredible! And those high cheekbones? She's the picture of her mama, who, I am told, was a renowned beauty. As for her clothes, we've been shopping and her gown for this evening is most fashionable and lovely."
"Lucia, aren't there sufficient gentlemen in the West Indies? She is most certainly out of her ken here. Surely you don't really expect to find her a husband here in London?"
"She's also an heiress," said Lucia.
"Excellent," was his acid reply. "You let that be known, and you will be besieged by fortune-hunters and scoundrels." He cursed softly under his breath, aware that the net was firmly drawn over him. He threw up his hands. "All right. I'll escort the both of you to the Bellermains' this evening. I will introduce little Diana to all my hapless acquaintances. But, Lucia, if she sharpens her shrew's tongue on any of the gentlemen, you can forget ---"
"Shrew's tongue! You insufferable dandy!"
Lyonel grit his teeth. "Did you bring the hartshorn?" he asked.
"Certainly. Here, Aunt."
"You must have raised your skirts and dashed up the stairs."
"Thank you, my dear," Lucia said, and tucked it under her handkerchief. "Lyonel didn't really mean exactly a shrew, Diana. He was just drawing comparisons about ---"
"Ha!"
"You are not exactly soft-spoken and endowed with maidenly modesty," said Lyonel. "If you wish to go along at all here in London, I advise you to moderate your mouth and keep your more ill-bred opinions to yourself."
Lucia rolled her eyes. Though she wanted to kick the both of them, she did find them, at least at this moment, more amusing than the hero and heroine of her novel. All that fainting did tend to get on one's nerves.
"I am not ill-bred! I am Diana Savarol of Savarol Island and I can say and do exactly as I please! And everyone would say I do it with good breeding."
"I daresay that this Savarol Island has all the importance and civilization of a backwater barracks." Lyonel broke off. His many-times-removed cousin was regarding him with fury in her eyes, and a very flushed face. What had gotten into him anyway? He was baiting the girl, just as Lucia had said. He was not behaving as he should. He was not acting like the gentleman he was. Two months ago, more than likely, her prickly pride would have elicited nothing more from him than tolerant amusement. But now, he’d like to take her over his knee and thrash her. He cleared his throat and managed with a good deal of effort to moderate his voice. "Miss Savarol, I apologize. I am certain that you have many fine attributes. Aunt, if you have no more use for me, I will see the both of you this evening."
"I wouldn't go to the museum with you!"
"Which museum, my dear?"
Lyonel regarded her with his blandest expression. "I didn't ask you, Miss Savarol, though the Tower of London is an interesting thought. Until this evening. Ladies."
He bowed himself out, relieved that he wasn't the one to have to remain and endure Aunt Lucia's inevitable tirade. What an abominable twit the girl was. And conceited, and sallow.
"My lord," said the proper and sepulchral Didier as he handed Lyonel his cane and gloves.
Lyonel cocked an eyebrow. "Unfortunately, I shall return, Didier."
He thought he heard a screech from the drawing room as he swiftly passed out of the house. I do not look pale and unhealthy, he thought as he strolled down the street toward Piccadilly.
Nonetheless, he shortly found himself at Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon. I am not unhealthy, he thought again as he looked down at bloody-nosed James Crockren at his feet.
2
Everyone must row with the oars he has.
—ENGLISH PROVERB
Diana stared at her overflowing bosom in the long mirror. She grinned, then began to chuckle, just to see if her bosom would stay where it was supposed to. Amazingly, to her, it did. At least for the moment, she amended to herself. No wild and impetuous gesticulations for her this night. She tried hunching her shoulders just a bit, but that looked altogether ridiculous. Ah, well, there was nothing to be done about it; it was what her body was, and that was that.