by M C Beaton
He kissed her breast.
“So we were.”
“Much pleasanter here.”
“Mmm.”
“And we will never, ever quarrel again.”
“Alice, my love, I swear it.”
Three months later, Mrs. Duggan sat in her apartment in Paris and read a letter from Mr. Donnelly. “I am sure you are anxious for news of our duchess,” he had written.
I was attending a breakfast at Lord Rother’s—you know, where Doggie’s wife met her end. The house is wonderfully refurbished, the merry widow having got Rother to open the purse strings wide. Lady Macdonald, back from Paris—in a gown bordering on the indecent—was there, and what must she do but flirt with Ferrant. Our little duchess picked up a jug of water and threw it full into Lady Macdonald’s face. Ferrant takes his duchess to task for her behavior, and, in front of everyone, his wife slaps him. “That marriage is over for sure,” says Lady Rother. I became anxious after all we had gone through for that couple and went in search of them.
There they were, in a quiet part of the gardens, kissing and hugging each other in broad daylight… and in such a passionate way that it made this young Irishman blush, I can tell you…
“Now that’s what I call a happy marriage,” said Mrs. Duggan, and began to laugh.