Oh, how angry the General was. He is not the choleric, blustering sort of red-faced English General that so often retreats to the countryside for retirement; Thomas Carter is a more thoughtful, quieter sort of man, with a fondness for the classics, for his daughters, and for the intricate nature of strategy. And when he heard of what had occurred, he was yet visibly angry, so that his younger two daughters quaked and the eldest went slightly pale, even if she stood her ground.
     But his anger wasn't at them, of course; and at first, he held them close to home, where they would be safe. Helen and Cassandra wept at the parties and soirees they were missing, while Penelope kept her own counsel, close to her room and to her father's library. Their mother barely noticed a thing...
     But time's gone by, and the General has finally relented. The three girls, escorted now not only by the eldest sister but also by a young lieutenant (attached, for the time being, to the General's personal staff) who is only too delighted with this soft duty and the company of three lovely young ladies of charming temperament.
     Well ... make that two ...
     Penelope is back in London with her sisters, of course, unmarried as she is. She has little desire to be there, to be constantly danced attendance upon by foppish young gentlemen who - finding her too intimidating, too intelligent, or perhaps just too old - only stay around long enough to gain introductions to her sisters. However, here she is, staying at the Carters' city lodgings, attending soiree after soiree after ball after dinner after soiree. Every day, it seems, there is another letter of invitation, and Helen or Cassandra's cajoling tones : "Oh, I do hope you won't mind too terribly, Penny, but they were so kind as to invite us, I simply couldn't help but accept on behalf of us all..."
     Tonight it is her turn to wear the famed Carter sapphires, as it happens. Not that Penelope even would care, but - "We've got to keep it fair," Helen declared, and Cassandra uncharacteristically agreed.
     "They do look lovely on you," Cassie added, touching one of the earrings enviously. "Even if they go better with my eyes. Do wear that new blue gown we had made for you, won't you? It will go so well together."
     "You're up to something," Penny told them, glowering, casting a longing glance over at the book she'd snuck from father's library. "I can tell. I'd really rather not go to this thing at all. Sapphires or no sapphires, you know perfectly well you two will get all the attention and I'll get just enough that I can't bring my reading."
     "You need to have fun," Helen had insisted, and with a sigh, Penelope had relented, allowing the two younger girls to do her hair and lace her into the gown, nipped-in waist and bodice strings and all.
     And now...
     What am I doing here, Penelope thinks to herself, glowering over a glass of (to her mind) rather mediocre wine. As usual they're dancing with everyone who asks while I stand here - being stared at, to be sure. I must look a proper pig in a poke...
     Resolutely, she stands her ground, looking over her glass of wine at the crowd of people around the buffet and around the dance floor. The handsome lieutenant staying close to her elbow, perhaps - but treated nonetheless like part of the furniture.

     What a fine occasion to come out of the mothballs. It is the social event of the year. There are lords and ladies, available men, available women and matchmakers in every corner. For Penelope, it is a veritable minefield of possibilities.
     The ballroom is crowded with swishing dresses of all colors, and men in and out of uniform but all of whom are in their finest. It is one such soldier who presents himself to Penelope, a bow of his head -- and nearly a salute. He does salute the lieutenant.
     "Miss Carter," the young man says, "...sir," he addresses your bodyguard, "...Corporal James Higgins," he says in introduction. "Might I have your next dance, Miss Carter?" He assumes a woman of your family's stature has not been holding up the wall all night. Surely, you have a dance card. He's not unhandsome -- though, he's no lieutenant, to be sure.
     On the dance floor, there is a most handsome fellow whose hands haven't been empty all night. He has easy smiles, and red hair bound back with a ribbon. He is taller than most of the men around, and is quite the dancer. He makes his way past you. And for a moment, there is the glimmer of an emerald eye your way.
     Perhaps you are more lovely than you give yourself credit. More popular.

     "I'm afraid that I don't dance so much as tread heavily on my opponents' feet, Corporal." She's a little more at ease with the corporal, oddly, than with even the lieutenant; with soldiers, she's a little more likely to be just herself. She's heard too many stories from her father, perhaps. Penelope offers him a grudging smile, then shakes her head. "You need your feet for marching, don't you? You won't have them anymore if you ask me to dance."
     She takes a sip of her wine, turning slightly to one side, eyes narrowing at the dance floor. Someone she doesn't recognise. Is he new? "How are things in France?", Penelope finds herself asking, attention somewhat diverted from the corporal. "I would find a discussion of that more engaging than a dance; but if you are minded to dance instead, I shouldn't stop you."

     "With my lady's pardon," the corporal smiles. "I am willing to hazard it... if you are?" But you go on, putting off all attempts for him to sweep the General's oldest daughter off her feet. "France...I have not been to France as of yet." He glances to the lieutenant.
     The song switches and dancers change partners. The quite tall red-haired gentleman moves to the buffet. His clothing is quite fine. He is clothed as a lord, he must be a lord. He takes a glass and begins to move your way.
     Shall you be surrounded by men who wish to be the first to get you to the floor?
     "I expect to be deployed soon," the young corporal continues. "Perhaps we might encourage the French to join us in altogether different dancing..."

     She is vaguely away that she is being flanked. The lieutenant - dutiful rather than appreciative, as both Helen and Cassandra are currently being swept off their own respective feet, to judge by the giggles and squeals emanating from various points around the room; the corporal, present for reasons known only to God and himself; and now another man. One whom she does not recognise - and to gauge by the giggles and sighs and flirtatious looks, at least some others do not, but judge him by his clothing.
     In such situations, Penelope can only do what she always does : hold her ground, by truculence if need be. She maintains her position, nodding to the corporal. "My father is following the reports quite closely," she remarks carelessly. "I understand that the Navy is having trouble filling their quotas. You are perhaps one of the safest, corporal; being as you are already risen to your present rank in the Army, you are unlikely to be impressed into another form of service!"
     She offers a faint smile, sipping her wine yet again. It isn't very good, perhaps - but it is an excellent prop. "What say you, lieutenant? Perhaps you and Corporal Higgins would be interested in chatting." That should get rid of two with one stroke.
     The lieutenant looks somewhat sickly at the idea, and offers the corporal a wan smile. Having bought a commission, he has received a relatively comfortable berth with his current position - and has very little interest in actual soldiery. Without much enthusiasm, he agrees, "I imagine that sometime, if the corporal is so minded, we could do so." He spots an opportunity. "Your sister has just left the dance floor, my lady. I'll go and escort her over to be introduced."

     If you are to be a spinster, it surely shan't be from lack of trying...
     The corporal knows a brush off when he hears it. "Perhaps when the lieutenant is less busy, Miss Carter," he says with another bow of his head. "I should not trouble you ... or him... your card must be quite full." And he is a polite boy. He nods to the departing lieutenant and then bows his head once again to you. "Miss," he says and he retreats, unsuccessful in his attempt at the General's daughter (and her dowry).
     The red-haired man is undeterred in his path to you. The giggling girls will be found later. He shall have no trouble by the looks of him. As he stands before you, he bows his head in polite greeting and holds out his hand palm up to take your own. "You must be the sphinx," he says, a lilt not from England or Scotland. "For I have seen men come and go and none of them successful in moving you. Do you have questions that must be answered, or a riddle that must be solved?"

     Two down, one to go. Penelope regards the approaching lord with extremely mixed feelings; easier to chase all these men away before she risks anything. "Lady Penelope Carter," she answers coolly, allowing the courtesy of her hand being taken. "I am as I am approached. Should I be moved, then, like so many loads of bricks? I was unaware that I was obstructing a doorway."
     Ah, there is the prickliness which so many young men have met, their mettle tested against. What shall yours be? But you have her hand in your grasp, and the grey eyes are intent upon you, slightly frowning though they are. Penelope holds her glass down at her side now, slightly forward as she scrutinizes you. "I suppose I could give you riddles. But if you got them wrong, then you would end up owing me tokens, wouldn't you? And if they added up to be too many, I should demand your head removed from your body."

     Your hand is given a kiss of greeting. "Lord Rhys ap Owain, Earl of Radnor," ah, so that accounts for both the red hair and the strange accent. He's from the West Country. And an earl. A red eyebrow drifts upward as your hand is returned to its rightful owner. And then he smiles. "Lady Carter, if bricks were made of such stuff as your character, we need never have need of an army. You would provide all of the legendary formidability required of British structures. The music is lively. Might it not move your spirit to enjoin it?"
     Ah, a worthy adversary?
     "I believe the requisite number of guesses is three. An awful short number to lose one's head over. I try never to be in a man's debt, nor woman's either. I believe it was Shakespeare who said: neither a borrower ...or a lender be..."

     "Sound advice, for all that it came from a playwright," Penelope concedes, though she's still none too sure of this. "Lord Owain. How do you do? I do not believe that we have made acquaintance previously. As to dancing, as I just explained to the corporal, I am a very poor dancer, and no man who dances with me can but escape with his toes maimed. Are you quite certain that you would not prefer to dance with one of my sisters?" Neither of whom are, suddenly, anywhere in sight; much to her own vexation.
     Where are they, now that they might prove of some slender use to me? Those flitter-brained children...
     They, no doubt, are doing their sister the immense kindness of leaving her with a potential beau; but Penelope sees no kindness in their vanishing. "I have yet to put a puzzle to you, Lord Owain. However, if you insist, I imagine that I could oblige." At least you are more inclined to test her brain than most of the men she encounters; still, she narrows her eyes, head tilted. "Are you newly arrived in town?"

     "Your sisters offer no challenge, if I may beg your pardon, Miss Carter, for they dance gayly with whomever asks. It makes me no better, certainly no braver, than every other young man in attendance." He smiles then, a certain wayward smile that offers feline secrets as well as congenial humor. "Some men prefer to gallop the hills and dales of gentle countryside, madam. I am from the mountains..."
     He is young, but even as yourself, he is full of his own sense of self, a bearing no doubt that his father instilled in him even as yours instilled such in you.
     "I have been to London before, but not for sometime now. I have been in the west," Wales, "... but we all must come before the king and swear. None of us," the British, "...so much as those of us in the west. It is a dance historical, rather than this... dance pastoral." Lord Owain smiles at this and at you, his green eyes going to survey the floating and spinning couples. "The country dances have become quite popular. It's not so much the measure of the steps but the ...life you put into it."
     He offers his hand to you, palm up for your acceptance.
     "What say you, Lady Carter. I have boots made for trodding. I don't fear your feet..." What do you fear, say his eyes.

     It is as much a challenge in its way as ever a gentleman received with the slap of a glove, and Penelope's chin lifts a scant few degrees further, breath taken in sharp inhale. "...Very well, since you leave me no easy exit for refusal. A dance. I am sure that you will come to regret it." And if you do not, she will make you regret it; that is implied.
     She allows her hand to come up, slowly and warily placed upon yours, chin still lifted as much to scrutinize you with that worldless suspicion as to accept. "I would be remiss not to tell you, however, that ordinarily I would not be present at such a gathering at all, had my sisters not insisted. They are much more minded to such ... excess than am I, for all that they do not offer you a challenge." Penelope finally turns her scrutiny away, some small tension passing out of her shoulders into resignation. "As I have been replaced - you are fortunate that our shepherd has gone to find them. One dance, then, Lord Owain? And then you may mend your aching feet."

     "A dance then, Lady Carter... and I shall let mind hold dominion over my feet." He grins, he cannot help it, and for that grin there is a sparkle in the eye -- what they say of Irish men may certainly be applied to the Welsh in that regard -- and he leads you onto the floor.
     There is laughter as well as music, not the least which is the sound of your sisters' to be sure as you are led like the queen herself onto the dancefloor. There is perfume, and as you and your partner begin to move in rhythm with the others, even if in counterpoint when the rhythm is lost (he never calls it out to you, he simply leads you back into the meter met by others), there is the rise of your own, of his own. Something of wood, a distillation of the forests of his birth perhaps?
     Lord Owain does not look at the other women about. You are his focus. Have you ever been anyone's focus but your own? No mountain that protests as much as you do doesn't want to be climbed...

     The colour rises high in her cheeks, and her gaze lowers despite herself. For all her prickliness, it rarely crosses into overt belligerence; and yet, something about you has had her coming closer to being outright rude - and for all that she does not want to be here, neither does she truly wish to quarrel. Penelope thus submits to be led onto the dance floor without further resistance, though there is that hint of awkwardness.
     Perhaps she just doesn't feel she belongs here, in the midst of so many; dancing, or otherwise...
     That small chin rises as you lead her to a clear spot on the floor again, cheeks still ruddier for whatever conflict arises within her at the notion - and certainly for your direct and unabated observation of her. And on the dance floor, you make a discovery that others have yet to tempt her out to find - she is not so bad a dancer as she claims...
     She is not a virtuoso; you can sense her uncertainty with where she is and what she is doing. And that, perhaps, is why she does not allow herself to be tempted onto the floor, for how can one hide that uncertainty from a dance partner, when ever tremble of a hand or hesitance of a turn is so directly signaled to one's partner? There can be no dissemblance, when there is that direct line of communication.
     "You dance well," Penelope mutters grudgingly, though she keeps her gaze focused upon your chest rather than your face. The colour is still high in her cheeks, and she is more aware of your focus than she tries to pretend. "I can imagine that you must be very in demand."

     "As do you, Lady Carter. But your secret shall be safe with me," he smiles. As if the rest of the room could not see the evidence for themselves. He does not speak to the demand, but simply smiles at you. Not that you can see it, keeping your eyes on his chest as you do.
     "Why do you choose to remain with the wallflowers, Lady Carter, when clearly a woman of your intelligence and quick feet could be as in demand as any young lady here?"
     You do not get time to answer, for it is the period of this country dance where partners are exchanged. Your fingers are grasped by, first, another lady's (who smiles at you in passing, gaiety in her eyes and face) and then into a man's arms, an older gent of pleasing reputation.
     Across the way, Lord Rhys ap Owain is partnered with Lady Archer, she of the fabulous jewels. They seem to have some acquaintance, or perhaps she is simply caught up in the handsome Welsh lord's smile. Lady Archer must relinquish him, however, as the dancing steps lead him back to you.
     "Did you miss me, Lady Carter? I hope you did not inflict too much damage on Lord Kimberly."

     There is that slight start, almost nervous, almost angry at the question - but it's swallowed up by the change in partners, and she's hardly going to deliberately tread noisily upon an old man's feet. Penelope almost visibly bites her tongue, biding her time until she is returned to your arms.
     "Was there much to miss, Lord Owain? I should not have thought so; you found more than amiable companionship, I am sure. You and Lady Archer seem already acquainted, however." Penelope's words are slightly tart, though a bit more subdued than before, and though she begins by meeting your gaze, her eyes gradually sink until she is looking down and to the side, cursing the colour that remains in her face.
     There is a slight pause as she concentrates on where she places her feet, and quite deliberately, one small foot comes down on yours. "Oh, I do beg your pardon," Penelope says insincerely. "Perhaps I ought let you go. You see, I am in truth far from a quick-footed dancer; the patterns spun upon the dance floor are far beyond my comprehension to keep up with." In some way, there is an element of truth to the words, but it's hidden beneath the layers.

     He laughs as he leads you on, undeterred by your tartness or your stomping. "I was raised with Welsh cobs and mountain ponies, Lady Carter. You shall have to do better than that." Damnable man. "As for Lady Archer, I danced with her earlier, yes. We are not, however, engaged. Though I do understand she hopes to marry and many hope for the dowry offered."
     "I shall set you free when the song ends, as you wish it. But I do hope that you will allow me another dance before you go. You speak like a nettle, Lady Carter, but your cheeks are much more like the rose..."
     Yes, he has seen your blushing. Yes, he has enjoyed it. Yes, you are easily rankled. Yes, he likes rankling you.
     And so the song comes to an end, and partners bow and curtsey to one another. Lord Rhys ap Owain does so, too, and gives you a wink for good measure. "A pleasure, Lady Carter."

     Again, the colour comes full into her face for such frank talk. She is accustomed to speaking such; not so accustomed to hearing it. "I should hope that you were not engaged, and here, dancing with me," Penelope mutters rebelliously. "I am quite aware of my 'old maid' status without there being pity attached as well."
     An old maid at the fragile age of nineteen...
     To the notion of another dance, she is almost tongue-tied. Yet you have already succeeded in drawing her onto the floor once, where others have tried and failed. "I will consider it," Penelope answers you loftily, "but I prefer the company of men of arts and arms. I am a very poor dancer, as you surely must now realize." She sinks into a surprisingly graceful curtsey, spreading her skirts as she descends. "If you so declare, Lord Owain. I pray you pardon me; after such exertion, I must find repose."
     A drink, and quite likely, some air and space in which to clear her flustered mind...

     "That was not pity, Lady Carter. It was a joke." He smiles as he rises from his bow. "But perhaps not a funny one," the gentle tone eases upon the air between you. Lord Owain bows his head to you again. "Your consideration is all I ask, Lady Carter."
     The dancing continues for those who simply can't get enough of it. He moves among ladies and men, withdrawing to the drawing room where men sit sipping brandy and plotting the course of the world.
     The red-haired lord is in demand. If he weren't before, he is now. For he has done the impossible. He has made Lady Penelope Carter dance.

     Penelope makes her way through the room, exterior as cold and hard as ever, though inwardly, she is shaken. It is at the edge of the buffet that she is suddenly beset from either side by two raven-haired girls, one just a little older than the other, and two piercing squeals.
     "You danced!" Cassandra accuses her, gripping her arm and shaking it lightly. "You actually danced! He is so handsome! I am quite beset with envy. Did he speak to you kindly? Does he seem taken?"
     "An earl!" Helen chants, "An actual earl! Penny, how do you dare, I wonder! Oh, I am so glad. I was so afraid that you would send him away with a cold word! Did he ask to put his name down again upon your card? Was he nice? Did he make your pulse flutter? Tell, tell - tell us all of it!"
     Penelope stiffens, pulling away and turning to glare at her sisters. "There is nothing to tell," she insists in a hiss. "Lower your voices. Do you wish to shame the family? Honestly, you two! It was just a dance. There is nothing ... untoward ... or at all of interest for me to tell you. He seems easily as interested in Lady Archer as in me. Moreso, I should say; he has danced with her before." There is that little stab of jealousy, immediately doused by insecurity and resoluteness. "Put him from your minds. He obviously has his sights set on larger dowries than ours. Besides, he is ... he is from the West."
     Cassandra and Helen exchange glances that turn rapidly into knowing looks. "Then," Helen begins with careful hesitance, "if you are so - very certain that he is not interested... you won't mind if ... Cassie or I try to draw his attention?"
     Cassandra chimes in, just as slyly and with just as much appearance of ingenuity, "Really, we wouldn't want to trouble you - but if you find him so odious, we could certainly endeavor to make sure that he'll not trouble you again. And, if he should find one of us pleasing..."
     "That won't be necessary!" Penelope snaps it, and she turns away from her sisters, shoulders ramrod straight. "Set your sights where you like, but I do not need your help. If Lord Owain should trouble me again, I am quite prepared to engage him upon my own terms, and I forbid you both to interfere. Go back to finding yourselves husbands and leave me to my own devices. It is stifling hot in here; I am going out to the gardens." She suits actions to words, leaving her sisters behind her to exchange knowing looks while she seeks the coolness - and solitude - of the outdoors.

     The doors open out onto the veranda, and are typically left open for the passing of couples or groups or occasionally individuals to pass through from the dancing. Most stay on the veranda itself, closer to the lights and gaiety, though occasional couples will slip off for short whiles so as not to be seen. At present, the veranda is largely deserted; the dancing has not been going on so very long as for many to need much rest. And that is a relief, to be sure; Penny has no desire to encounter old friends or enemies to whom she might need make explanations for her departure.
     She crosses the veranda with her arms folded over her chest, shoulders slightly hunched now that there is noone to see her. "Uncertainty has become a living thing in my breast," Penelope mutters as she climbs the shallow steps down from the veranda to the silence and solitude of the gardens. "Why did he have to ask me to dance? Curse him, anyway. It isn't as if it meant anything. I must remember that - it means nothing. It means nothing at all!"
     She bites her lip hard enough to draw a muffled gasp from herself - harder than she'd intended. One small hand lifts to test the skin, to see if there's a drop of blood upon her fingertip. With a dissatisfied noise, Penelope takes shelter in the shadow of a hedge. "Men are impossible creatures. They're almost as bad as women."

     Very few people have strayed into the gardens proper. Though, the air is cool -- it is strange that there are not more couples having ...most cordial moments enshrouded among the gardens trees and modest maze. There are some, of course -- you can hear the murmuring, the soft kittenish laughter, the rustle of leaves. For all the stateliness of the fashions, this London is a rather decadent one.
     Where you take shelter, there is a bench. Easily overlooked is a partner bench just a few feet away and on the other side of the fountain. It is there that a large man is reclined to feel the night air and to look at the stars.
     The serenity of such was interrupted by your entrance and your demeanor. Dark green eyes lift in the sound's direction. And wonder if their partnered mouth should speak. An eyebrow cocks up as you discuss the merits of man and woman.
     "I agree," the deep voice quips. Beside you, just on the other side of the small fountain is an older man, he has to be in his 30s which makes him, perhaps, the oldest man you've ever seen outside your father. He's dressed in military gear, a decorated officer. A veteran. "But what makes you say so, miss... at your tender years?"

     There's a gasp. She really had no idea that she was not alone, or she'd not have spoken so freely, for all her tartness. The grey eyes swing onto you, widened until she realizes that - of course - you must have been invited, just as she was. "I did not see you," Penelope accuses, eyes narrowing again for a moment before she relaxes into a shrug. You are a military man; she can respect that. "Forgive my intrusion; I would not have spoken had I known."
     She turns her head to look up at the sky as well, unfolding her arms slowly so that her hands are instead loosely clasped. "I just - find other people difficult, at times. They all expect different things, and they want one to wear different faces. I quickly realized I'd never be able to keep track, so I just threw the masques they presented me with all quite away and kept three faces for myself to use. I think that's more than enough."
     She eases onto the bench, toying with the lace of her gloves. "My sisters wish me to take on a new mask, and ... I don't think that I can, at my age. Though it is very kind of you," she adds gravely, "to say that I am so very young. I am quite nineteen, you know."

     "How old you are depends in large part upon where you stand," the older gentleman soldier intones. His accent is also clearly foreign, with a lilt and a drag wholly unlike English or London. "I am thirty-six... and I think the shrub is in its twenties. Therefore, you are the youngest in this vicinity."
     His sword clatters a bit at he stretches out his legs, his boots show the scuffs of recent use despite the day's earlier polish. He lifts a gloved hand from his folded arm position, a little wave that conveys 'It's quite alright, miss'. "I shouldn't be greedy with the sky," he murmurs. "So... you don't like wearing different faces. We all do, do you not think? Or do you think that men like to march and to kill in the name of kings we'll never come close to seeing? You do not like social dances," he rolls a braided shoulder, the silk shining even in the low light. "There are worse masks to wear, my lady."
     Dark green eyes glance to the lit ballroom visible through the opened doors. "I like the dancing, but as an old man," there's a grin of humored chagrin, "...I'm expected to be dancing with future wives and counting the dowries on the downbeat of each measure. It's all a bit much."

     It gains a reluctant smile from her, comparisons to the trees. "I'm sure that everyone does," Penelope agrees, "but it's dishonest. And while we can't all be always honest - a few lies are what make us all more acceptable to one another, our companionship otherwise too stark and grating... I don't want to know someone only on the surface. What possible use could that be?"
     She settles her hands in her lap, looking from the sky to you, eyes going shrewd for a moment. "My father is a soldier. I don't think for a moment that it's something men like to do - but you do it all the same. Gentleness has its place, and not every war is just, but you go. You march, and you take aim, and you charge, and the blood gets everywhere - into your eyes with the smell of the gunpowder, into the crevices of metal that has to be scrubbed so it won't gum or corrode and cause misfire or worse. And it changes you. My father's told me about it. But you do it all the same, don't you? This," she lifts a hand to indicate the house, "is as close as I will ever come to a battlefield. I'm not my father's son, after all."
     She gives her head a little shake, an impatient exhale upon the end of it. "Matrimony! Don't let's talk of it. I am expected to be dancing with future husbands and considering how well they'll provide for me. Never mind has he a brain in his head or will he appreciate the works of Aristotle and Pliny, or does he even remember my name after a long night on the tiles; I'll be expected to take him in with the washing every morning, and never question where he tomcats away unless I am to be a shrew and a harridan. And if I am a shrew and a harridan now, then I'll not marry, will I? He may as well know what poor bargain he's getting, I believe; and if it means I'll not marry, well, so be it. Better that than end with some curdling whey-face without a measure of spirit that hasn't come in a bottle. I do not ... did not," she grudgingly amends, "dance."

     "You are very fortunate to be your father's daughter in that respect. But... we each have our burdens. Your gender must look to the future. Mine must secure the present." He smiles at you. "I think you would make a fine wife for a soldier. If you don't mind my saying, miss... Oh... pardon. Here I am dispensing advice and I do not even know to whom. Nor have I treated you with the courtesy you should expect."
     With that the voice in the darkness makes himself known. He rises and cuts a grand figure in the partial darkness. Broad and tall. He bends in a bow, his hat removed in the motion. As he straightens, that hat is tucked beneath his arm. "Dafydd Llywelyn, of the Marches, commander of the third corps. Welsh brigade," he explains.

     You receive a curtsey in return, a slight pinkening to her cheeks. She is more at ease with you than with the other Welshman in the midst. "Penelope Carter, daughter of Lord General Thomas Carter. How do you do, Commander? It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." It would seem that much of the prickliness can be dispensed with, when dealing with soldiers of rank; unlike the (undoubtedly whey-faced in her opinion) lieutenant, you receive a generous smile. "There is one of your countrymen within," she adds, almost abruptly. "Lord Owain, the Earl of Radnor. I do not suppose that he is a military man!"
     Having hopped up to give you curtsey, now she resumes her seat. "I doubt that I will ever marry. I am the despair of my sisters; they both think that I should be softer and more pleasing to the gentlemen we encounter. But I am as I am, am I not? And the expectations upon me have always been different from upon them; as it is, I do not know how pleased father is with me." Penelope bites her lip, looking vexed - both at the thought, and the reminder of her already bruised lip. "I am afraid that I have let him down, recently, and so he has assigned a shepherd to us to do the task which I failed. Fortunately, that shepherd prefers my sisters to me, or we should have quarreled fatally by now. But if you do not intend to hunt wives, Commander, what brings you forth? There is little to do at these engagements other than dance," she rolls her eyes, "and be gossiped about."

     "One comes to such things because it is expected when one is in society. To not be present at such an event makes one suspect of being rude. And if one is rude, then what else might one be? Traitorous?" He smiles as he sits, sword clattering as he goes.
     Lord Owain's mention makes an eyebrow quirk. "The Earl of Radnor?" He seems surprised by the question. "He is ... a lord. All lords are military by nature. He is not... a soldier, per se. Not a working soldier," Llywelyn corrects lightly. "He is far more of a strategician, a scholar, than a pure soldier." He has to wonder. "Why do you ask? Was he boasting of military exploits?" The commander smiles.
     But then you speak of your father. His look is one of sympathy. "A father's anger never lasts long with a daughter. If he has provided a shepherd it is most likely due to the certain sniffing of hounds at his flock. A father of daughters tends to be more protective and shielding, knowing men's nature as he does." He chuckles at that a little.

     "Hardly that!" Penelope sniffs. "I am my sisters' protection. As we have no brothers to defend them or their honour, that task falls to me. But I was not ... able to perform." She colours, looking away. "We were held up recently," she explains, a grudging taciturn note in her tone. "By a highwayman. There was nothing that I could do."
     The small hands form dainty fists in her lap, gripping the expensive silks. If she had been born a boy, she'd likely be dead by now, of a wild leap to defend the two younger girls.
     Such suppositions are far from her mind, however. "In any case, I - merely wondered. Lord Owain asked me to save him a dance, and - one wishes to know with whom one is keeping company, however briefly." The answer, however, seems almost not one she liked; Penelope's expression is briefly frustrated, the colour going again high in her cheeks.
     How much harder it is to defend against one who seemingly embodies the characteristics most admired in one's own father... "He can't be very good at it," Penelope says resolutely. "But no, he did no boasting. I should not be so easily impressed as that. What of yourself, Commander? Dispatching yourself here to avoid matrimony, then? Or merely a respite - a bivouac?"

     "Ah, simpler still than that," he says, a look to the stars. "I was overheated." Smiling he looks to you. "I will have to head back into the fray eventually. As should you, lest your reputation be... damaged by holding private conversation with a much... much older man."
     Red eyebrows knit together as you mention your recent ordeal. "I am certain he is far more relieved that you are alive..." and intact. He hopes. "You were not harmed, I hope. The roads are becoming quite treacherous, if it were not enough that we have to guard against Prussia, France and Spain we must protect our roads from our own people."
     He sighs at that. "I am sure it is no slight against your ability to protect yourself and your sisters but a father's concern, Lady Carter, that would cause your father to assign an attache."
     You blush when you speak of the Lord Owain. The older gentleman turns his eyes away from you, giving you your space. "He is quite accomplished. A young man with great potential. He comes from a good family. And he is hoping to find a woman ...not as an ornament but as a ... partner. He is Welsh," Dafydd smiles, "... we ... treat our women very differently than the English."

     "You know him, then." And well, apparently. Penelope narrows her eyes at you. You have inadvertently piqued her interest. "I do not know that I like him. He irritates me a great deal. And besides, he is quite taken with Lady Archer. I am quite sure," she dismisses with a gloved hand, "he has no interest in me beyond pity."
     So stubborn. She nods to the notion of being overheated, and more reluctantly, to protecting her own reputation. "Conventions are tedious. I should rather like to ask you about your experiences on campaign, but I suppose I had best return. Besides, my sisters will like as not have found trouble, and I do not trust that lieutenant to steer them; he may have been a highly recommended adjutant, but I have been their sister for my entire life."
     Penelope turns away, fingertips exploring the bitten flesh of her lip, reminded unwillingly of another encounter. "It was perhaps a month ago. I know that my father does not blame me, but it is difficult to bear the weight of his disappointment. I understand that he has added to the price on the head of the Black Jack Davy, as the local regiment had no success in securing his capture. I should," she speaks with sudden passion, "like to see him swing for what he did! We are," she calms again a moment later, "very fortunate to have come away intact. I only hope that my sisters will forget it in time."
     And stop reminding me of prices paid. And stop suggesting I use it to somehow find a husband. The little twitter-pates... but they do have good hearts, even if they are so perpetually misguided.
     She turns back, solemnity again in her expression instead of her vexation. "It has been very enjoyable meeting you, Commander Llywelyn," she says gravely, her accent nothing near Welsh. "I hope our paths might cross again."

     "The Black Jack Davy is a rogue and a scoundrel, my dear Lady Carter," the commander says as he rises. "I am sorry that you, as so many others, have met him on the dark roads to your disadvantage. But I am happy that you and yours came to no more harm than fear and indignity."
     He smiles and he salutes you as he would your father. "Lady Carter," the salute is lowered and he reaches for your hand, "... the pleasure was mine. I .. hope so, too. Enjoy your night."

     You receive a warmer smile than might most, for your station and experience, and Penelope allows her hand to be taken for a moment. "I shall endeavor to do so, Commander. I apologize for the indignities of my sex, and hope they shall not overly much inconvenience you tonight. Good evening to you."
     She turns with a slight pinkening of her cheeks, making her way by feel and by memory back up to the ballroom. Inside, once she's crossed the lintel, there is a dismayed sound. "Penny! Where have you been? Lord Owain will have danced with every woman in the room if you do not gain his attention again forthwith!" The doors, mercifully, close upon Penelope's undoubted sharp-tongued response.

     Outside was so pleasant, so relaxing - the stars overhead, a handsome older man who seemed almost like papa to console her. Not that Penelope's called her father 'papa' since she was fairly small; it wouldn't be seemly, with her the eldest and oh so serious, like a son instead of a daughter! But it served to put her a bit more at her ease, a chance to recover from the flustering experience of dancing with Lord Rhys.
     Lord Owain, rather. One mustn't be familiar. One wouldn't want to be familiar. Would one?
     Such thoughts are as traitorous as her two younger siblings. Penny is already glowering at them as they entreat her to come back before Lord Owain has danced with every lady but her. "I don't particularly care how many women Lord Owain has danced with," she retorts to them with a toss of her head, eyes indignant, "and you need not act as if I am so desperate for the attentions of a gentleman! You know nothing of him and yet you throw me at his head as if I were last week's fish. I have told you before and I tell you now again : tend to your own romances and leave me in peace!"
     Cassandra starts to remonstrate - "But, Penny, look-" and Helen shakes her head with a sigh. "Here's your card, then, Penny," the middle sister offers soothingly. "You had us hold it for you earlier - remember? Lieutenant Oldham has been feeling unwell; he's returning to our lodgings forthwith, we'll need to make our way home without him."
     "Good," Penny sniffs, taking the card. "He's quite useless. I don't know why father thought he'd be of any help whatsoever. Very well; run along." She turns away from her sisters, still a bit piqued though slightly mollified by Helen's more commonsensical approach. The two girls exchange glances, then quietly melt back into the woodworks, no doubt intending to watch from the relative sanctity of sheltering gentlemanly arms on the dance floor.
     "Why everyone is so very intent upon matchmaking, I've no idea," Penny fumes quietly to herself, moving to take up her position again by the buffet. "As if it were of any consequence at all!" She lifts the card, narrowing her eyes slightly as she glances it over - there's pencil marks on it. Weren't there none before?
     She is quite oblivious to the picture she must make, with the butterfly at her throat and the cobalt and summer-blue of her gown, sapphires dangling from ears, dripping from wrists, the not-quite chestnut of her hair coiled and coifed and curled in all its youthful elegance. Penelope nibbles at her lower lip absently, one hand lifting to tap the side of her neck below her ear with two fingers. "What's this..."

     Your card is quite full, but the names are all rather similar. In fact, they're really quite identical. Where other names appeared before, someone has taken the liberty of scratching them out. There is even commentary written in tiny but nevertheless quite neat handwriting:
     Oh, he'll never do...
     He has all the elegance of a pig at the trough...
     I don't think he's bathed since the War of Spanish Succession...
     You must be joking, Reginald, her father would kill you...
     Your sisters did not have the pleasure of his dancing, nor did any other woman. He has his sights set, it would seem, on his lady for this evening. Lady Penelope Carter. It is like one is watching an impromptu performance of The Taming of the Shrew.
     "That is your dance card." His voice is a sudden appearance in sound, even as his tall and well-clothed image is the sudden appearance of his personage. "I took the liberty of relieving your sisters the task of having you well matched this evening. You will see I've made notes." Lord Rhys ap Owain smiles and bows his head.

     Her head whips round and she stares from the card to you in something of disbelief. Her cheeks go red, although she doesn't step back; it likely takes an effort of will, that. "What are you doing?" Penelope demands crossly. "What makes you think that I wish to spend the entire evening in your arms? You haven't any right to come in and rearrange my dance card," or my life, "like this!"
     Flirtation really wasn't on her schedule. Nor was panic, though that at least seems to be penciling itself in.
     There is a vexed sound in the back of her throat, and the earrings tremble in annoyance. "While it is very kind of you to relieve my sisters, I am sure that it was quite unnecessary, Lord Owain. Now I've got to go apologize to all these other gentlemen." Who, ordinarily, she would have avoided as a plague; you know this, of course. She makes an exclamation in the back of her throat to match the vexation. "...Perhaps you had best go seek out Lady Archer."

     "For all your bravery, Lady Carter, I was hoping to hear your laughter. One cannot exist by commands and condemnation alone. Here," his voice softens and he holds out a hand, ungloved. "Accept my most tender apologies. And I shall make amends to the gentlemen. A lady should never have to be held at the expense of a true gentleman's... wicked sense of humor."
     He holds out his hand both for your hand, his palm is up, and eventually the card. Upon your hand, a kiss. Lord Owain waits upon your leave to take...and to fix...the card.
     "Ah... yes... Lady Archer. While she is a lovely woman, to be sure, the Church of England frowns upon consanguineous relations. Lady Archer is my cousin."

     There is a frown of mistrust given you, and again, that hint of uncertainty - vulnerability for a moment as the mask slips, then is hastily put back in place. "I accept," Penelope says haughtily, "your apology." Her hand lifts slowly to yours, the colour resuming in her cheeks. She was prepared for a fight. She does not know how to handle this capitulation - or whether to think less of you for it or no.
     The card remains at her waist for the moment, all but forgotten in the news. "I ... was unaware," Penelope says carefully, "that Lady Archer was your cousin, Lord Owain. It seems that I owe you an apology as well." And it is not even grudgingly given, for all that. There is the surprise, but no anger, and she tilts her head down so that she is not looking at you.
     The colour is still high in her face...
     "To be truthful, I do not wish to dance with anyone. Not even yourself; I," and she finds herself wondering at her admission, "don't entirely like to dance, for all that it is expected. You need not make amends, but ... while if you insist, I will dance once more, I would prefer not." Penelope reddens until she looks as if she might explode, and she looks away. Why am I asking his permission? Why am I offering to dance at all? I don't... this is surpassing strange...
     She becomes again uneasy, and it makes the prickles return; hurriedly, she attempts to snatch her hand back. "Then," Penelope says crisply, "if you would not object, Lord Owain? I am going to procure for myself a drink." She will turn away, if only she can first gain back her hand.

     "You deny me a dance after promising me and then will not allow me to do the courtesy of procuring a drink on your behalf? My dear Lady Carter, I am beginning to think that you don't think much of me." He smiles and by that smile may it be noted he doesn't himself believe such a thing.
     Lord Owain releases your hand after the kiss, his arms going behind his back, his fingers interlacing and holding his gloves. "If you change your mind about the dance you promised... do send a messenger my way, Lady Carter," no doubt one of your sisters, "...and I shall join you in another country dance. For now, I shall let you... get on with your evening ... unmolested." Once more the handsome lord bends his head in a bow, deference from an earl to a general's daughter given.
     He turns to head to a brandy for his own cause. Neither a borrower nor a lender be? It also does not do to over flatter or seem to conciliatory...

     It is difficult to know what Penelope thinks of this; in part because Penelope herself does not know what to think, nor how to react. "I ... shall keep that in mind, Lord Owain." The colour remains high in her cheeks. She moves away, mingled regret and relief and confusion held inwards as a sorrowful and troublesome burden.
     Of course, she has not gotten very far before she is beset from both sides. "Are you mad?" That's Cassandra. "An earl, Penny! He wanted to dance with you! He gave up any dance for any other woman, just to dance with you, and you threw him away? What's wrong with you!"
     Helen is slightly more moderate, though the look she gives Penny is one of disappointment. "Did you not like him, Penny? I thought him very handsome, myself. And he was most interested in you; did he offend you, or you him? He seems still to hold an interest; look, if you like, you could call him back..."
     "Cassie! I am not half so interested in my own marriage or love affairs as you," Penny hisses to her youngest sister. "If you do not have a care and begin minding your own affairs instead of mine, I'll - I'll tell mother that you aren't to be trusted, that you're too young for a season after all!" This threat gets a gasp from the younger girls, and Cassie looks close to sudden tears. Resolutely and swallowing her guilt, Penny turns back to Helen. "He has not .... offended me - or well, he had, but he has offered amends. I simply ... don't care to dance right now. Perhaps later. I don't ... I don't trust him!"
     Helen blinks at Penny. "You don't trust him? Then he did offer you offense!"
     "No!" Penelope glares at Helen, then sighs, lifting a hand to her forehead. "It isn't like that. Just - can you not trust me to know my own mind at all?" One silvery grey boot-toe taps impatiently. "It is not as if I am so very a flibbertigibbet!"
     "No," Helen answers frankly, Cassie still sniffling slightly, "I cannot, sister dear. I've never seen you like this - not over any young man, or any old man, either. When Lord Gregory offered to take a stroll with you through the brush, you mocked him to his face until he ran like the wind. When Sir Henry told you that you had a fetching smile, you told him to see if it would fetch someone with more sense than he clearly had, and followed up with a scathing critique of his history with the local ladies. And now you say that Lord Owain has not offended him and you blush as a strawberry, but you won't dance with him. What are we to think, Penny?"
     Penelope glares infuriately at Helen, then snatches up a glass of wine from the table. She drains it to the bottom in one motion and sets it down again. "Go back to your dance partners," she tells Cassandra and Helen in a deadly voice. Then she pivots on her heel, marching towards Lord Owain.

     He is young but he knows himself. There is confidence that follows in the wake of his relaxed stride. It is almost as if the fox knows that the hound is in chase and he's waiting, just biding his time, until the hound nips at his heels.
     There is a smile on his face, perched easily there. He nods to another, his hands still laced behind his back. "Lord Hamilton. I trust Lady Hamilton is well..." It is answered with a smile and a nod, some word that passes between the two of them, but it is not a conversation. The Earl of Radnor continues toward the brandy.

     "Lord Owain." The tone of voice is crisp enough to have been starched especially for the occasion. Penelope bears down upon her quarry rather like the selfsame hound - or a hound of Hell. "I do apologize for the intrusion, but it would appear that some rather silly children have made a mistake. Would you care to do me the very great pleasure of meeting me upon the field of honour?"
     The cant of her head indicates that the field she refers to is the dance floor. There is not so much as the glimmer of a smile as she makes her request.

     He stops and he turns, a bronze eyebrow lifting. There is a bland expression at your crisp tone but there is a quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Emerald eyes are stones no less bright than the sapphires you wear.
     You issue a challenge, and Lord Owain tips back his head to meet it, just as you do yours to offer it. "My dear Lady Carter, it would be my distinct pleasure to duel once more." He offers his arm to you.
     The dancing numbers have begun to dwindle as the hour marches on. Soon, it will be time to bid adieu. But the dancing is no less spirited, though more prone to waltzing moves than country leaping...

     She takes the offered arm, though not without a certain internal indecision that you do not get to see. Is this really a good idea? She's been goaded into this by her sisters, and she does this less to quell you or her own fears than to shut them up. But she has taken your arm, nonetheless, and she moves with you to the dance floor - almost as if to her execution.
     "You need not humour me if you do not wish," Penelope informs you stiffly. "However, one dance. And then I must collect my sisters and we must return home. Our shepherd has taken ill and we do not dare remain as late as we would otherwise."

     "I shall provide escort for you then, and will not take no for an answer, Lady Carter," he interjects. He can be as stubborn as you! "The streets of London are even more treacherous than the wooded roads that the Davy keeps toll on..."
     You are led into a gentle rhythm. One of his hands lightly clasping yours, his other gently laid upon your waist. "You challenged me, and I simply cannot resist answering a challenge where you are concerned. I shall hazard the field... and take my chances..."
     His eyes imbue a warmth, though their emerald color might speak of forest shade or garden bowers. They look at your hair, your face, your stubborn chin.
     "When in your manor garden, Lady Carter, what is it that you read? I find the topic far more interesting than gossip. I hope you forgive me, but I am not accustomed to idle chatter..."

     "I ... am not accustomed to such either." You have neatly undone her defenses. She does not know how to respond to you; she can only answer with unwilling truth. "Father is very fond of the classics, so I confine myself largely to his library. Catullus, Pliny, Juvenal, Aristotle, Plato, and, of course, Homer."
     She allows you to turn her through the steps of the dance, but the colour remains high in her face, with your hand there upon her waist; she is altogether too conscious of it, of the pressure of your fingers upon her hand. "Father named us for his favourite author." Penelope mutters it, and again, she finds that she cannot meet your eye. With a desperation, she declares, "It is strange that you should mention the Davy. I encountered him, once."
     And just as quickly, she reddens, brightens. That is not what she meant to say! It puts her in mind if midnight enigma and the pressure of lips against her own. Brashly, Penelope adds, "You should not be so quick to take up every challenge, Lord Owain. And I assure you, we are in no need of your escort. As I have only just been introduced, it would be unkind and moreover, improper."

     "Honor requires me to offer, even as Propriety may require you to decline. Honor being satisfied," Lord Owain sweeps you in a circuit as he smiles, "...so am I. Catullus," he remarks with thoughtfulness. "You must be reading his epitaphs. His love poetry cannot be discussed in polite society. Naturally, I have read them."
     Naturally...
     "Did you?" He seems surprised at your admission. "And lived to tell the tale. I am sorry that you were accosted. Few who move on the country roads are able to do so in peace of mind. They say he is part fox..."
     They do say that, indeed...

     "I have not read his love poetry," Penelope answers primly, "and I do so decline." She allows herself to be swept along, concentrating on what you say rather than what you do. "I have primarily confined myself of late to histories rather than poetical. Poetry is pleasant, but it is of very little point ... to me."
     And that is a poignant admission as well, and the eyelashes flicker down onto her cheeks. Of what use could poetry, of love and romance, be to a girl who is convinced that she is beyond courting, who locks her heart behind such walls and defies all courtiers? But this is a self-betrayal that she is unaware of making. And the topic is turned.
     "He offered me no violence," Penelope disputes hotly, "nor, in truth, did he injure any of us. He is a thief and detestable for that, but he did not offer us any injury. I cannot say as to whether he is part fox or part magpie, but he let us pass with our mother's sapphires still hidden."
     That is how she chooses to tell it. No admission made of kissing...
     "Our coachman, however," Penelope adds austerely, "we made walk back to town without us. I took us the rest of the way home. Better a live fool than a dead hero, perhaps - but he betrayed our presence to the villain, and I will never tolerate cowardice."

     "I am glad to hear he offered you no violence," Lord Rhys ap Owain murmurs as he moves you in time to the music's continuance. "It is amazing that he let you escape with such prize jewels. I am sure it has nothing to do with his morality. Perhaps a guilty conscience. He and your coach driver alike."
     A red eyebrow lifts, "Have you read Caesar's Gallic Wars?" He does not dwell on such an unpleasant topic as your recent robbery. "... I should presume so, being the daughter of a general. Ah, Cicero... you are a fan of his work? I tend toward the Classics, as well. They are like hidden treasures," perhaps his own admission? "... discovered after a long time away from human consciousness."
     The music begins to slow and there is something of a wistful turn to his smile. "It appears, Lady Carter, that our duel is over. We seem to be at a draw, neither of our feet worse for the wear." Lord Owain's voice sounds low. "I must confess to you that I am sorry it is ending. All dances are too short..."

     "He offered us no violence," Penelope says firmly, "and he did nothing untoward other than rob us." And that is a lie which causes a pink flush to creep up into her cheeks. But it could just be the memory of the event, could it not? You would - in theory - have no way of knowing. "I think him a man with no conscience at all, born defective. I cannot understand why they laud him so in songs. He is undoubtedly less of a man and does this to - to prove to himself that he is a man, after all!"
     There. She has said it. Defiantly, she lifts grey eyes to your own green ones. "I have read of the Wars," Penny agrees cautiously, "I am interested in strategy and warfare. I am given to understand," she hurls an assault at you, "that you are not a /working/ soldier, but you yet have a grasp of strategy. I suppose, though, that that must come from your readings, then, rather than practical considerations."
     The music slows, and your smile alters, and she finds herself most unconscionably blushing. Penelope looks down at her feet almost accusingly. "I ... I do not quite like to dance. It is too close. I always miss the steps." But not this time, it seems - neither on purpose nor by accident. "...But," she recalls herself hurriedly to herself, "I am not sorry that it is ending. It is better that it ends now, before your toes are quite broken, Lord Owain. If you will pardon me? I really must collect my sisters, lest they be led into trouble by those with more mischief or malice than virtue."
     You have her so uneasy, but you also have her blushing...

     There is a glimmer to that gaze as you mention his strategic prowess, so-called. The expression sharpens somewhat, as if to wonder where you might have heard that bit of news. "My dear Lady Carter, those who are born to my station are not allowed some privileges of this life, one of which is to be a commissioned soldier. But I have been trained. Perhaps France shall yet put that knowledge to the test."
     But the music draws to a close. He releases your hands without further argument. Taking a step back, Lord Owain bows. It is a deeper bow, that worthy of closing a dance. Straightening, he smiles to you. "Certainly, Lady Carter. It... was a pleasure meeting on the field of battle with you. I hope we meet again. Perhaps you will test my strategy as much as France. Noswaith dda," he speaks in his native language. It is a brush of sound, lyrical.

     She was about to speak of your 'prowess' further, but you release her, and the opportunity's gone. Penelope frowns, just slightly, then composes her features as she sinks into an answering curtsey. "Lord Owain. I am not entirely certain that it /was/ a pleasure, but I am not entirely certain what it was. So I'll allow you the pleasure for the time being." As if she could stop you. "Nos-what? Er. Good evening," she finishes hurriedly, and turns away before colour can stain her cheeks in a new betrayal.
     From the sidelines, Helen and Cassandra watch with lively interest. Cassandra, the shameless little flirt, offers you a wink - whether encouraging you in your pursuit of her sister, or hoping to draw your attention herself, who can say? Penelope takes no notice of it, fortunately; she instead moves to the two girls as stately as a galleon at sail.
     "Come, sisters," the eldest daughter of Lord General Carter tells the two primly, "it's a dark enough night that we're walking on foot. And no, Cassie, we're not staying until they shoo us out - you did that the other night, and I was never so embarrassed. Helen, have you our reticules?"

     "It means Good night," he says as you turn to leave. And with a grin, he watches you go. Eyebrows lift and for one your sister Cassandra is ignored. This fox has the rabbit he wants in his sights. A most difficult quarry. Indeed.
     Lord Rhys ap Owain blends among the crowd, disguised by the laughter of remaining guests and the clinking of glass to glass...

     "Of course." Helen blinks uncertainly at Penelope, holding out the reticules and capes. "Penny, are you ... alright? Your face is quite red."
     Cassandra giggles, but receives a wrathful look from Penelope. "I'm fine, Helen," the latter says evenly, in the sort of tone of voice which has caused more than one young gentleman to recall an urgent prior engagement. "If you think that it is because of Lord Owain, then please, think again; nothing could be farther from the truth. I doubt that I will encounter him again, any more than we shall the Black Jack Davy - and while he is, at least, a gentleman rather than a thief, I have as much desire for his company as for the thief's. Now put on your cloaks and do let's go. It isn't getting any warmer out there."
     So saying, Penelope lifts her chin at that haughty angle, looking back over her shoulder to the Welsh earl; then she looks away again sharply. "Cassandra, do stop being a gawk and let's go." She moves for the exit, adjusting her gloves and slipping the dance card - her memento of the evening - into her reticule. "I've grown quite tired and I've no more patience for dancing. You two may go without me tomorrow night to Lady Staffordshire's ball; I am going to go riding."
     "But it will be dark!" Cassandra and Helen both evince their surprise. "Are you certain you won't come with us?"
     "You have the lieutenant to tend to your needs," Penny replies coldly, ignoring her sisters' looks of entreaty. "And I find I have need of some space from your foolishness to regain my patience. Come on, then. I have an engagement with Aristophanes I'd like to keep. And you, young misses, with your solitary beds." She sweeps out, with a sharp rustle of her skirts.

Posted by rowan at August 06, 2005 07:27 PM