Lady Flora's Fantasy by Shirley Kennedy Read Free Book Online

recall now Mama invited him."
    "As well as that friend of his—that rather rude man who looked so aloof and hardly danced."
    Flora only half listened. Already her mind had drifted. Lord Dashwood must come. She desperately wanted to see him again. As for his friend, she hardly remembered...what was his name? Ah, well, no matter.
    When she finally arose, the morning proceeded in its usual tedious fashion. After breakfast, at exactly nine o'clock, she took her usual short walk with her mother and Amy—down to the first oak tree and back, the same every day. At precisely eleven, her mother and Amy took up their petit-point and Flora, because of her short-comings in needle-work, was allowed to read.
    Because of the at-home, their usual afternoon schedule of either receiving visitors or paying visits was changed. The relaxed pace of the day disappeared. Instead, there was an extra fuss as they changed for afternoon, Flora donning a white muslin tea gown with a double row of flounces around the hem, trimmed with pink satin. Under their mother's fidgety direction, Flora, Amy, and the parlor maid scurried about the drawing room, plumping out cushions that Lady Rensley imagined hollowed, straightening slightly rumpled seat covers, shifting a foot stool that for some unfathomable reason had been moved an inch from its appointed place.
    "Everything looks fine," Flora assured her nervous mother, as she smoothed a slightly disturbed small hearthrug.
    Amy whispered, "I wish she wouldn't have these at-homes. She near kills herself with worry."
    Flora heartily agreed. Lady Rensley reveled in her at-homes, and never failed to hold them, whether at their London town house; Sweffham Park, their country home; or here in Brighton. But she never relaxed and enjoyed herself. Instead, she worried that the silver would not be polished to its highest possible glow, or that the lemon wedges would not be cut exactly straight, or one of her fine china cups might contain some infinitesimal crack. Will that be me some day? Flora often wondered. When and if she married, would she end up like her mother, worried about every little thing? I do not want to be like my mother , she thought dismally. Never.
    Lady Constance Boles was the first to arrive, followed by an elegantly dressed collection of Lady Rensley's lady friends. They were deep in a predictable and utterly boring discussion of furniture, china, and ormolu when there was a stir, and every female eye in the room turned to the door. Flora could almost hear the swift intake of breath. It was as if a shining god had dropped from the heavens as Lord Dashwood appeared, resplendent in top hat, serge spencer jacket over a waistcoat, drill trousers, and a magnificently tied cravat over the high starched points of his collar. He carried a heavy walking stick and wore kid gloves and leather Hessian boots with a tassel. He also wore a devastatingly charming smile.
    Amidst tittering admiration he strode into the room and bent with courtly deference over Lady Rensley's hand. "My dear Lady Rensley," he said in his mellow, deep voice, "how utterly kind of you to invite me." His gaze swept the room. "Ah, a room full of lovely ladies. I must meet each and every one." He noticed Flora as she arose to greet him. "Ah, Lady Flora." Bending low again, he kissed her hand. "How delightful to see you." For the fraction of a moment, his gaze swept over her, soft as a caress. His eyes met hers, insolent, compelling. She felt a tingle down her spine. His eyes were sending a message that clearly said, I'm interested in you. I want to see you again.
    Her senses leaped to life as she became acutely aware of the charm he projected. He was so compelling she felt an urge to reach out and run her fingers through those glorious golden curls which he wore romantically long, just like a poet. But there was no time to think about it now. Fighting to control her breath, she cleared her throat, pretending not to be affected.
    She must greet