It was time for his next target.
Who should be slamming out of the Olympic Theater any moment now. And yes… there she was, just ahead, with hapless, red-faced Robert Fitzwilliam on her heels.
Just as he should be.
When His Grace had first seen Beryl Wentworth, he’d thought her a little slip of a waif with copper curls and enormous eyes. Now that he’d done his homework, he’d modified his opinion: she was a little slip of a waif with copper curls, enormous eyes, and a flaming temper to match. In the six weeks he’d been observing the pseudo-couple of Miss Beryl and Mr Fitzwilliam, they hadn’t yet enjoyed an entire entertainment of any variety without a violent emotional tempest exploding between them. Like the sun rising in the east and falling in the west, one could set a clock by their societal interruptus.
He slipped into position behind them, stretching his longer legs to match her pace. No need to get close; neither combatant chose to modify their raised voices, and a number of merchants and walkers along the Strand turned and stared at their onrushing rampage.
“I can’t believe you compared that horrid wig to Violetta de Lisle’s curls. They’re nothing like and you know it.”
“They’re much like and any honest person will back the opinion. Same shape, same size, same ridiculous sausageyness—”
“Ooo-oh!” She whirled on him and jabbed one exquisite finger into his cravat. “That was a comedic wig, designed to look ridiculous. Violetta’s curls weren’t. She’s very proud of her appearance—”
“Well, perhaps she shouldn’t be—”
The clear choice His Grace faced was to walk past their combat zone, or pause and not even pretend to not notice them. No need to consider, really. His choice was not polite, perhaps, but far more entertaining than the alternative.
If a man hasn't yet learned not to make fun of a woman's hairstyle, then he's got a lot to learn. Hey, school can be fun, right?
Thanks for stopping by,