It's time this exercise got some love! Thank you for continuing to offer the opportunity. (Sorry my time is so limited on the site this year; all in one-shot, limited proofing!)
# # #
A white glove lay on the ground, now almost completely covered in dirt. Nearby, a young woman, pale and trembling, faced an elegant, fair-haired man who looked completely affronted.
"Really, Miss Swanhaven," he drawled, as he stooped gracefully to gingerly pick up his abused article of clothing between two fingers, "your behavior is extremely unacceptable. My poor valet will have an apoplexy. I do wonder if you and I are suited after all."
Some small secret part of him that he didn't really care to examine at length, smirked, as he uttered those words. He well knew what a panic they would set her in because Eleanora Swanhaven was completely smitten with him and had been ever since their first meeting, two years ago at Lady Carstle's garden party.
As a rule, Lord Avilston avoided sweet, earnest young maidens, as, invariably, they were a terrible bore (and a greater nuisance as they strove to secure his favor, since he was handsome, rich, titled, and most importantly, yet unwed). Without rancor, he simply abhorred their tiresome company.
But, Nora… There had been something about Eleanora Swanhaven that pulled at him like a kite string; a fragile tension between them that caused his lips to curve in amusement at the sheer novelty of it. Or so he supposed. He had never quite put his finger on the attraction.
She was lovely in a subdued, modest kind of way, which he had decided was utterly boring. She might as well wear a placard around her neck announcing "Virginal Maiden." True, she had velvety skin; a body that was slender and sweetly curved, yet elegant of carriage; was fashionably and suitably dressed (but sadly without flair); possessed a shining waterfall of wheat-colored hair; a voice pleasingly low and sultry; and she was surprisingly lithe and athletic for a young lady of her class. And when she laughed, she really laughed! Not squeaking or tittering shrilly, covering her mouth as if, for all the world, laughing was an obscenity.
Lastly, she didn't put on dieaway airs and graces. He had liked that.
But he hated her eyes—those green-gray eyes that slanted slightly upwards like a cat. Oh, the color was fine, he supposed, though nothing outstanding. And they did reflect a certain intelligence. Perhaps too much so. He'd never been attracted to bluestockings. And yet, despite her native intelligence, the overall effect was one of innocence, bordering on stupidity, he thought to himself. Repulsive.
She had no idea how the world got along. Of the cruelty, vice, and treachery that ran along its seams like bubbling poison. Bloody hell! And he had gotten engaged to such a dimwit yesterday afternoon in a moment of insanity. Somehow, she had so hypnotized him that he actually believed he felt overjoyed at her acceptance, at her soft kiss.
Thank God that his ex-mistress (a rich socialite, just short of notorious for her affairs) had spitefully flaunted one of his monogrammed gloves in front of Nora when making a social call on her this morning.
Affecting a pose of complete nonchalance, Lord Avilston darted a glance at his fiancée's anguished face and quickly looked away again. There was no doubt in his mind that Nora had been pushed to the brink and was about to give him his congé, despite her feelings for him. He was delighted. Yes, absolutely. Freedom couldn't come soon enough! He would have felt wonderful, except for the wretched nuncheon he had just consumed.
The roast beef had been off--he had suspected as much--damn that highway robber of an innkeeper!
