(The mill beingMemoirs of an Heiress, obviously.)
“For Margaret,” Lord Dulloch said again, with dignity. “Tell me not, Sweet, that I am unkind.”
Squibby intervened. “Are you joking? You’re calling Snaps here ‘sweet’?”
“Be quiet!” I exclaimed. “Iamsweet.”
Sometimes.
Squibby’s laugh rumbled over the garden. “No, you’re not. You’re snappy and bad-tempered and endlessly curious.”
Was that a compliment? My foolish heart thought maybe it was. “Please, Lord Dulloch, continue,” I said, with just as much dignity as the poet.
“Tell me not, Sweet, that I am unkind, for from the nunnery of thy chaste bosom—”
Squibby interrupted that line before I even absorbed it. His voice is normally low, but it dropped an octave. “How dare you refer to Miss Dashwood’s person?”
“It’s poetic license,” I explained, though I wasn’t actually in favor of the line. I couldn’t help thinking that Sally’s breast would never be called “chaste,” which implied that mine was flat enough to warrant the adjective.
“From the nunnery of thychaste bosomand quiet mind, I fly,” Lord Dulloch said doggedly.
“?‘Quiet mind?’ You’re blurting out poetry you wrote for some other woman,” Squibby said, interrupting again. “Did this used to be called ‘For Molly’? Wasn’t that the name of the barmaidyou were so obsessed with at university? Though ‘chaste bosom’ might be a stretch.”
See what I mean?
Obviously, no woman wants a chaste bosom.
Lord Dulloch’s lips thinned until he looked as indignant as a bird whose worm got away. As grumpy as an owl. As sour as a beetle.
(The problem with nature similes is that I have no idea how to interpret a beetle’s mood.)
“I was inspired on first glimpsing Miss Dashwood’s face,” he declared.
At least he didn’t refer to his first glance at my bosom. I had the feeling Squibby might have knocked him down.
“We all have attacks of strong emotion now and then,” Squibby said more kindly. “Snaps here is doubtless responsible for any number of men losing their heads. But writing poetry about her bosom isnot on, old chap.”
Lord Dulloch cleared his throat. His face had gone rather red. “I shall rewrite that line and recite it to you tomorrow, Miss Dashwood.” He cast a nasty look at Squibby. “When such a flippant critic is not present.”
“I shall look forward to it,” I said, giving him my kindest smile.
“You’ve never had a ‘quiet mind,’?” Squibby said, chuckling to himself, as his lordship disappeared into the ballroom. “Dulloch always was a fool.”
“I don’t suppose you would ever court anyone with a poem,” I said, because (again) I had drunk too much champagne, and it made me giddy.
“Not my own,” Squibby agreed. “If I was to court you—which I won’t, because we are only friends—I’d use Andrew Marvell. There’s a brilliant one called ‘To His Coy Mistress.’?”
“I am nevercoy,” I said indignantly.
“And I glory in that,” he retorted obscurely. “Come on. I can’t play chaperone all night.” He caught up my hand and drew me through the tall doors leading to the ballroom.
To my profound annoyance, he paused for a moment on the threshold. He’s tall and has a commanding way about him, so a great many people turned and saw us hand in hand.
I felt a spasm of embarrassment, but at the same time, I liked the feeling of his hand around mine. My hands match my feet, but Squibby’s fingers make me feel delicate.
“There she is,” he said, dropping my hand as ifitwere a beetle.
He headed straight over to Feodora, whose silly face was wreathed in smiles. Imagining herself as the Countess of Vaughan, no doubt.
