Escapade

by Joan Smith

  “They're back already,” he continued. “She must think me a speed demon to have had time to be accepted— make an offer already."

  “Patrick! Is that why she came, to get rid of Sara and grandmama?"

  “Yes, much good it did me.” Already the three women were alighting and looking towards the house. Then, very quickly, Clare said, “Miss Fairmont, Ella—darling, will you do me the honor to be my wife?"

  “I must consider the matter,” she replied with an outward calmness she was far from feeling.

  Glancing to the window, he reminded her urgently, “You have about two seconds in which to consider it."

  “That will be enough. I suppose I must accept."

  He flashed one very brief, happy, and triumphant look at her before going to the saloon door and turning the lock on it. Ella looked on at this irregular behavior with interest.

  “Do you mean to barricade the windows, too?” she asked. “Must they come down the chimney like Père Noël?"

  “No, shrew, they will come in by the door as soon as I am through with you.” Already the sounds of the outer door opening and female voices raised in discussion were heard. With no further waste of time, Clare strode to Ella and pulled her brusquely into his arms. He kissed her with passion and, she feared, considerable expertise, for he seemed to do it very well. Their thoughts were overridden by feelings for some seconds, and when he released her a disquieting silence reigned in the hall beyond. Observing this, they looked a question at each other, but soon decided to put the interval to good use, and resumed their embrace with no demur whatsoever on the part of Miss Prattle, who obdurately derided fast conduct in young ladies.

  With a breathless “Oh,” she pulled back at last and looked to the door. Silence still prevailed in that direction. He reached for her again, but she pulled back. “I cannot imagine what they will think,” she whispered.

  “Unless I am mistaken, they will have a pretty good idea what to think,” he replied, putting an arm about her waist and pulling her towards him.

  “Patrick—stop it at once! We must unlock the door.” She tried to pry his arm loose but found it to be unmovable.

  There was a rattle at the door at this point. He kissed her ear briefly, and removed his arm but held to one hand as he went to the door and unclasped it.

  “Were you locked out?” Ella asked, pink with shame. “I cannot think how the door came to be locked."

  “It happens all the time when it is slammed shut,” Sara said glibly, with a knowing look at her niece.

  “Well, slowpoke, did you get it done this time?” the Dowager demanded of her son.

  “Slowpoke? I cannot think you have even been around block,” he countered.

  “Patrick, you cloth head, you cannot mean you have still not asked her? Must I do it for you?"

  Clare glanced at Ella. “You will observe this assumption of a positive answer is a family failing. I have not only asked, Mama, but been accepted. Two quite different matters, you know."

  “I detect the firm hand of Miss Prattle in that answer,” the Dowager said approvingly. Her words were overborne by the delighted exclamations of Lady Sara and Lady Watley, and a general volley of congratulations and kisses exchanged.

  “Well, I think this occasion calls for a glass of champagne or something,” Sara decided. Then she laughed gaily. “I little thought when I wangled us that invitation to Dorset, Ella, that I should find you a husband.”

  The wine was delivered to the saloon, and the Dowager called for a toast. “It's the man who gets stuck with the job of coming up with some suitable words, I believe,” she said to her son.

  Clare lifted his glass. “It's the height of bad taste to drink to oneself, I suppose, but for this one occasion I mean to take the rules and bend them a little..."

  “That's nothing new,” the Dowager said aside.

  “Thank you, Mama. May I continue now, or must I box your ears first?"

  “You have your work cut out for you, Ella,” she warned, with a pleased grin. “I doubt if even you can make a silk purse of this sow's ear."

  “The heel of your own foot, Mama. As I keep trying to say, I would like to propose a toast—to the Duke and Miss Prattle.”

  * * *

  Visit www.belgravehouse.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.