muslin of her gown, making that fabric nigh on translucent, baring her breasts and her pert little pink nipples to Raoul’s heated gaze. She hiccupped, then dabbed at her running nose with the hem of her gown. “Oh, please, my dearest darlingest beloved! You cannot abandon me and marry the bastard daughter of a duke!”
Lord Raoul turned his back to the sight of the damp woman and looked out upon the velvety green lawns at Firthstone. He was saddened he had to give up the bit o’ fun that was Rowena, but after all, she didn’t have nearly the dowry that Pruenella, the natural daughter of the Duke of Colinwood, had, and dammit! one didn’t pay for the cow when one had the milk for free!
“Why should I not marry her?” he asked carelessly.
Rowena looked at him as if he’d lost his senses. “Er…well…for one thing, she’s a bastard, Raoul. Not legitimate. Her parents weren’t wed. You do understand that concept, don’t you?”
“So, what do you think? Is it too harsh? Do you think Lady Rowena would speak in such an insolent manner to her beloved Lord Raoul? Is he too unsympathetic?”
Kamil the grocer had that look peculiar to deer caught in the headlights of a speeding truck, but he gamely rallied a smile and smoothed a hand over the stack of evening tabloids next to the cash register. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. You talk to someone else, a woman maybe, someone who reads books. I can’t help you. You want to buy something else, maybe?”
I scooted over so a customer could plop down his packet of shrimp-flavored crisps and a six-pack of shandies in the tiny clear space on the counter. It wasn’t much of a space, about a foot across, the rest of the counter being taken up with racks of candy, newspapers, snack foods, postcards, and miscellaneous odds and bobs. Kamil’s store was one of a dying breed, a tiny oasis of fascinating British and Pakistani foodstuffs crammed together so tightly on the shelves, it was impossible to extract an item without a positive cascade of tins, packets, and jars falling upon the unwary shopper. I peered through the stacks of items on the counter to wave a friendly goodbye to Kamil, and gathering up my manuscript pages and groceries, headed out the door toward home.
I like walking around London. It has a nice feel to it for one of the world’s major cities—neighborhoods havea distinct feel to them, some warm and homey, others hip and exciting, and still others dusty and dry with history. I lived within walking distance of the British Museum in a very pleasant area that had several green squares, aggressive squirrels who panhandled anyone incautious enough to bring food to the square, and lots of dark, mysterious little shops filled with intriguing antiques, books, and artifacts guaranteed to delight even the most sophisticated of hearts.
Heat shimmered up through the thin soles of my sandals as I strolled down the pavement, swinging my bag of groceries and breathing in deeply.
“Ah, the smell of diesel on a warm summer’s eve,” I said happily to an elderly lady who stood at the zebra crossing with an armload of shopping.
“It’s terrible, innit?” she nodded, shuffling forward at the traffic break. “You’d think with the price of petrol these days, fewer people would drive, but it seems like more and more are.” She sniffed and gave me a curt nod, then marched off toward a block of flats.
I turned and started down the street toward Beale Square, content to listen to the sounds of life around me—music drifting out from open windows and shop doors, the dull roar and whine of traffic as it started and stopped up and down the street, and the wonderful ebb and flow of conversation. It’s amazing how many variations there are on an English accent, everything from the guttural and harsh Cockney and its variants, to rounded words of the western counties, the occasional swoop and sway of an Irish accent, the warm burr of the Scots, and the plummy, silky
Lord Raoul turned his back to the sight of the damp woman and looked out upon the velvety green lawns at Firthstone. He was saddened he had to give up the bit o’ fun that was Rowena, but after all, she didn’t have nearly the dowry that Pruenella, the natural daughter of the Duke of Colinwood, had, and dammit! one didn’t pay for the cow when one had the milk for free!
“Why should I not marry her?” he asked carelessly.
Rowena looked at him as if he’d lost his senses. “Er…well…for one thing, she’s a bastard, Raoul. Not legitimate. Her parents weren’t wed. You do understand that concept, don’t you?”
“So, what do you think? Is it too harsh? Do you think Lady Rowena would speak in such an insolent manner to her beloved Lord Raoul? Is he too unsympathetic?”
Kamil the grocer had that look peculiar to deer caught in the headlights of a speeding truck, but he gamely rallied a smile and smoothed a hand over the stack of evening tabloids next to the cash register. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. You talk to someone else, a woman maybe, someone who reads books. I can’t help you. You want to buy something else, maybe?”
I scooted over so a customer could plop down his packet of shrimp-flavored crisps and a six-pack of shandies in the tiny clear space on the counter. It wasn’t much of a space, about a foot across, the rest of the counter being taken up with racks of candy, newspapers, snack foods, postcards, and miscellaneous odds and bobs. Kamil’s store was one of a dying breed, a tiny oasis of fascinating British and Pakistani foodstuffs crammed together so tightly on the shelves, it was impossible to extract an item without a positive cascade of tins, packets, and jars falling upon the unwary shopper. I peered through the stacks of items on the counter to wave a friendly goodbye to Kamil, and gathering up my manuscript pages and groceries, headed out the door toward home.
I like walking around London. It has a nice feel to it for one of the world’s major cities—neighborhoods havea distinct feel to them, some warm and homey, others hip and exciting, and still others dusty and dry with history. I lived within walking distance of the British Museum in a very pleasant area that had several green squares, aggressive squirrels who panhandled anyone incautious enough to bring food to the square, and lots of dark, mysterious little shops filled with intriguing antiques, books, and artifacts guaranteed to delight even the most sophisticated of hearts.
Heat shimmered up through the thin soles of my sandals as I strolled down the pavement, swinging my bag of groceries and breathing in deeply.
“Ah, the smell of diesel on a warm summer’s eve,” I said happily to an elderly lady who stood at the zebra crossing with an armload of shopping.
“It’s terrible, innit?” she nodded, shuffling forward at the traffic break. “You’d think with the price of petrol these days, fewer people would drive, but it seems like more and more are.” She sniffed and gave me a curt nod, then marched off toward a block of flats.
I turned and started down the street toward Beale Square, content to listen to the sounds of life around me—music drifting out from open windows and shop doors, the dull roar and whine of traffic as it started and stopped up and down the street, and the wonderful ebb and flow of conversation. It’s amazing how many variations there are on an English accent, everything from the guttural and harsh Cockney and its variants, to rounded words of the western counties, the occasional swoop and sway of an Irish accent, the warm burr of the Scots, and the plummy, silky
Similar Books
The Sentinel (The Sentinel Trilogy Book 1)
Michael Wallace
Deep Longing (Bend to My Will #4)
Emily Jane Trent
The Silent Ones
Ali Knight
A Deadly Compulsion
Michael Kerr
Sapphires and Desires (The Gem Fairy Series Book 1)
Tarisa Marie
Cold Kill
Neil White
Solo Faces
James Salter
When the Chips Are Down
Anne Rasico
His Amish Sweetheart
Jo Ann Brown
Accepted
Coleen Lahr