Rules for Engagements

by Laura Briggs

  "Let her have a little fun, Flora," said Roger. He sat reclined against the tree’s trunk with an open Quarterly Review issue in his hands. "For I suspect she will grow up to be as charming a lady as her sister, regardless of how many games of cricket she plays."

  Leaning closer to his bride, he found a kiss waiting there. His fingers played with a long strand of red hair which had escaped from her elegant hairstyle to brush the shoulder of her yellow silk gown.

  "Only twenty minutes," Flora said. "And ask Papa to approve it as well." With a sigh, Marianne scrambled to her feet and followed her governess towards the house, where Sir Edward was reading in the library. His fondness for both his daughter and his son-in-law assured them that he and her sister would often be guests in her home or with the kindhearted Colonel of Brawley Court.

  Despite her happiness, Flora admitted she sometimes missed the hectic responsibility of Evering House. She would also admit the charms of Donnelly Hall and its life were more than she could put into words in her letters to her aunt and her old friends in London. The beauty of the countryside visible every morning she rose and stood at their windows.

  And the promise of a little of London's season and autumn visits from those held dearest to her was a reminder of how sweet it is to have the grand old city as a diversion instead of a home.

  "Why on earth are you plying needle and thread today?" asked Roger. "I thought you dislike needlework; and Heaven knows my mother and sister have sent us enough embroidered cushions and footstools since the wedding."

  "What else would I be doing?" she asked. "Lucy will not be here for weeks, nor will the Miss Bartons. My aunt is too busy scouring London for a husband for the youngest Miss Phillips to write me–and I have nothing but my garden and husband to console me."

  "Then perhaps it is time for the famous authoress Anonymous to write another book," he suggested. He moved beside her on the blanket. "Have you no ideas in your head for anything– even a novel? Surely you do, for the clever Miss Stuart was never without a story."

  "Lady Flora, however, remembers her husband's disdain for her first work of literature," Flora retorted. "So I shall leave the pen and ink to others, thank you very much."

  He scoffed loudly. "I didn't hold nearly as poor of an opinion of the first one as you think,” he replied. “In fact, it was quite an entertaining little volume. For a gentleman in need of advice regarding young lady's motives."

  "You never read it," she challenged. "Remember how you referred to it as nonsense?”

  He smiled. "Oh, but I did." He flipped open the journal on the blanket to reveal a copy of Advice for Young Ladies tucked in its pages.

  She stared at it with surprise. "When did you procure a copy?" she asked. “Do not tell me you went into a shop somewhere nearby and purchased one!”

  "I procured one the moment I borrowed my sister's own after our conversations at Brawley Court,” he answered. “Although, I fear I did so without her permission."

  "Then it would suit you well if I turned my attention to matchmaking instead," she answered, tossing her head. "For since I know all the rules, I can undoubtedly find suitable husbands for all our eligible friends." She rose from the blanket and strode away, cheeks flushed with mock indignation.

  "But you already shared your secrets, Flora." He followed her and caught her arm, his dark eyes filled with mirth. "Now that the rules for engagements are all known, anyone can be as infinitely clever as you when it comes to feminine charms, no?"

  With a sly smile, she wound her arms around his neck. "Did you not read the end of the little volume yet?" she asked. "For if you did, then you would know why the book shall never be as clever as its authoress."

  "Then will you tell me the final rule that only the clever authoress knows?" he whispered.

  She leaned closer and kissed him. "That you never reveal all the rules."

  Become a fan of Laura Briggs’ books and qualify for sneak peeks, giveaways, and special previews, as well as the inside scoop about upcoming novels in the series by subscribing to The Paper Doll Newsletter.

  ~Follow Me~

  Facebook

  Twitter

  Goodreads

  Excerpt from Book II in the Regency Rules Series, LOVE AMONG THE SPICES

  "Do you admire my blue-bottle fly?" asked Adam Nimbley. "I was rather intrigued by his size when I found him busy 'round the carcass of a dead raven this morning, so I brought him along."

  The fly was among the specimens already contained in Nimbley's creel when he met Marianne in the woods. A jar with a series of half-grown tadpoles swimming in murky water from the stream, a pale green Mantis clinging to a water oak branch.

  "He is rather noisy," said Marianne, peering through the glass surface. "I think you should let him go, for surely we will find something worth having more than a common fly."

  "I think you are too impatient in our work," he answered, with a soft laugh. "We have turned over a half-dozen rocks and already peeled back much of the bark from this fallen log and found nothing more promising than a handsome large spider." As he spoke, he removed his eyeglasses and wiped them clean with a handkerchief from his pocket.

  Marianne was sitting upon said log, balancing the creel on her lap. There was a smudge traveling across her cheek from the mud beneath the rocks, but she had waved away the proferred handkerchief from Nimbley in favor of allowing it to remain.

  "I shall have to wash it off before tea anyway," she explained, "for I gave the Miss Bartons rather a fright when I returned so disheveled yesterday. I had forgotten their guests and my entrance did not give them the impression of a proper young woman." The only concessions Marianne had made today was to leave her hair pinned up properly and wear her third best afternoon dress despite the risk of the forest's mud.

  Adam Nimbley had glanced at her more than once as he lifted the shell of a large green beetle, to which several worker ants were clinging in the process of carrying it away in bits and pieces. His gaze was shy, flickering away again towards any distraction which afforded itself handy.

  "If we should at least find another chrysalis–or perhaps a caterpillar in the process of weaving himself one. Wouldn't that be better than a mere blue fly in a bottle?"

  "I did not see one," Adam answered, "although I found something equally interesting. Pity it was not alive, poor creature, for I found it on one of the stream's rocks. It's in the box beneath the jar of red mushrooms."

  Marianne withdrew small box, lifting the paper lid to view the contents within. It contained a deceased dragonfly, its legs folded inwardly as its beautiful wings tapered outwards in perfect curves.

  "He's lovely," she said. "What splendid colors. It's far more beautiful than any pin or brooch in the windows of a London shop."

  "Do you really think so?" he asked, curiously. "I would suppose any young lady would admire a pretty ornament more than an insect's corpse."

  Marianne did not reply as her fingertips carefully turned the dragonfly to catch the light. "I think the colors in his wings are worth looking upon far more than the diamonds of the explorers from Africa. Even the little ring Lucy Easton–that is, Lady Sanford," she corrected herself upon afterthought, "– has from a stone in Africa is not so beautiful."

  "Lady Sanford," he repeated. "Then you have seen the Sanfords and Eastons in London? Quite splendid at balls and parties is the former Miss Easton. A very fine family indeed."

  Marianne laughed. "I have known the Eastons all my life. Although it was not until my sister Flora's marriage that they were my family in more than feeling." She placed the lid on the box again.

  "Then you–are related to them?" Adam's voice exhibited a slight tremor. "Lady Flora Easton–Lord Easton's wife– is your sister?"

  "Why, yes," Marianne answered. A funny smile appeared on her face as she surveyed his shocked countenance. "What does it matter?"

  His face flushed deeply. "Only that I did not know," he answered, in a low voice. "That is to say, I did not realize who
m I was addressing."

  Marianne's face flushed with comprehension. "Then it makes a difference to you, to know that I am part of society?" she asked.

  His eyes were averted from hers, voice stammering in reply. "Of course it does. Your connections, your family–it would change my manner of speech to you, of course. How could it not? If I had realized it, I never would have addressed you in such a fashion as this."

  "Because it does not matter to me what I am," Marianne answered, a trifle coldly. "And I do not wish to be treated differently by anybody because of some very silly rules of station." She shoved the box into the creel and slid down from the log, seizing her basket and nature journal as she walked away.

  "Miss Stuart," he called. "Please, wait–" The words were in vain, since Marianne did not turn back, her stray curls flouncing as she disappeared in the direction of the duck pond's field.

  He waited a half-hour for her return, leaning anxiously against the log as he peered through the trees. But tea time came and went, and there was no further sign of Marianne.

  Find the Book at a Favorite Retailer HERE

  “…I thoroughly enjoyed The Last Miss Phillips, especially the contrast and friendship between heroines Kitty and Hetta.”–Jessica, IndieJane.org

  Book III in the Regency Rules trilogy–find it at a favorite retailer HERE.