by M C Beaton
Gustave stood by the window, watching their passionate progress along South Molton Street as the entwined figures were lit by the feeble light of the parish lamps.
“Dieu soit benît,” said Gustave, heaving a sigh of relief. “Now I can get me a good night’s sleep.”
Once indoors, the viscount augmented Lady Baillie’s parsimonious drawing room fire with several shovels of sea coal and sat down with Yvonne on a sofa in front of it, holding her close to his side and dreamily watching the flames.
“Why did you not tell me before?” said Yvonne. “Why did you not tell me you loved me?”
“I was afraid of my own passions,” he said. “You are so young, so innocent.”
“And have a passion to match yours.” Yvonne laughed, drawing his head down.
Half an hour later the butler opened the drawing room door and then retreated hastily in time to witness Lady Baillie’s flustered arrival.
“Good evening, Perkins,” said Lady Baillie. “Is Lord Anselm here? I was never more shocked in my life. I must talk to him.”
She put her hand on the handle of the drawing room door.
“No!” cried Perkins. “You m-must n-not.”
“Oh, dear,” said Lady Baillie, letting her hand fall.
“Oh, yes,” said Perkins.
Lady Baillie rallied. She turned instead and headed for the stairs. “A special license, I think,” she said firmly. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. That is the trouble with this generation. No morals.”
Inside the drawing room, the viscount put Yvonne gently from him.
“I never thought it would be I who would have to restrain you,” he said, grinning.
“Wait for our wedding night, my beautiful ward. Just wait!”