A Loyal Companion by Bárbara Metzger Read Free Book Online Page A

sopranos. Who can understand taste?
    Take ticks, please. No one likes the bloodthirsty little buggers, no one finds them the least attractive—except other ticks. I truly believe this is where love enters the equations. The ugliest equine in horsedom could be grazing in the field, all swaybacked and moth-eaten, but let that mare come into season, and the stallion is in love. Old Gigi is the most beautiful creature he's ever seen. The sap rises, his heart sings. If he cannot be with her, he'll die. That's love. That's the fire that lets creatures as silly as sheep perpetuate their species, and the
flame that helps a lady starling select one gentleman out of a flock of a hundred identical males.
It's magic.
    If marriage has nothing to do with love, as Muffy so firmly believes, there is no reason for cosmetics or corsets, padded shoulders or hairpieces. Solicitors could handle the transactions. We could be home in the country. Instead we spend boring hours planning for balls—dancing parties, not the fun chase-me kind—and improving Miss Sonia's appearance. We are not laying a trap, as Miss Sonia so inelegantly puts it; we
are kindling a blaze.
    Obviously Ned the butcher's boy did not generate any warmth. No magic. I myself thought he smelled delightful; it seems Miss Sonia prefers a gentleman to smell of Hungary water or snuff. I admit I have made mistakes before, but he seemed to fit her specifications so well. I guess I was barking
up the wrong tree.
     
    Lady Almeria revived after the Watch left. The already too-long-suffering Marston took charge, clearing the front steps of curious bystanders and the entryway of slack-jawed servants. Next the butler paid off the butcher and saw that the delivery boy was reimbursed for a new pair of breeches, plus a handsome tip for the trouble. The unfortunate animal was remanded to house arrest in Miss Randolph's room, and young miss, still giggling, set off for her appointment with the dressmaker. Properly escorted, of course. Then, his duties discharged with what dignity befitted a ducal residence, Marston withdrew to the butler's pantry, firmly locking himself in with a bottle of the late duke's vintage port, not to reappear until dinner.
    This was not what he was used to, no, not even when Lady Allison, Master Thorndike, and Viscount Harkness, the heir, were young. Lady Atterbury and the late duke—and Marston—agreed that children were best raised in the country, by someone else. That was how the new little duke was being reared, in the country with his mother and an entire army of nursery staff to see that he did not burn down Atterbury Hall. He would seldom be in London to cut up Marston's peace until he reached his majority. Viscount Harkness did not live long enough to succeed to the title, predeceasing his father due to overindulging in brandy and underestimating a jump. He never got to see the son everyone said was in his image, and Marston was almost hoping he himself wouldn't be around to see the lad either.
    In all of Marston's days at Atterbury House, there had only been one ignoble episode, that concerning Miss Allison and her would-be betrothed. The event was of such monumentally vulgar proportions, it was still spoken of at the nearest pub. Now Miss Allison's daughter was here for just one day, and Marston could never show his face at the Red Stag again.
     
     
    Oblivious to Marston's distress, Miss Sonia was shopping. For once, she was enjoying the experience. Madame Celeste did not make her feel like a cabbagehead, instead encouraging her—and her father's remorse-driven generosity—to create a style of her own.
    "I can see that Mademoiselle is not in the usual mode," Madame understated when her newest customer blew into the shop. Miss Randolph, with tousled tresses and laughing blue eyes, had instantly pleaded that, if she absolutely had to wear white for her come-out, Madame would please find a way to make it different from every other white debutante