“Charmed, I’m sure.” Lady Charlotte’s words dripped acid. Even someone as dense as Lord Bernard felt their burn, and squirmed.
He attempted what he probably thought was a rakish grin. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your conversation, but I’ve come to steal Miss Anya away.”
Anya flicked her fan open and grimaced at her cousin from behind its shelter. Lady Charlotte snapped her own open and fluttered it in front of her face.
“And does my cousin wish to be stolen?”
Lord Bernard spluttered, confused.
Anya spoke. “Since I’m not a vase or painting, I think I should find it most uncomfortable.”
“There you are then, and I may add, thieves are a group of people I quite heartily despise. I’m sure you’ll understand my aversion to any more time in your company.”
With that, Lady Charlotte, hooked her arm through Anya’s turned her back on the still spluttering lord, and walked off.
Anya resisted the temptation to look back. “Where are we going?”
“To have words with Mama. I do not understand what your mother sees in that lumbering buffoon and it’s past time my mother made her opinion on the man known.”
“Does she have one?”
“She will shortly.”
The DNA of Stories 