“Yes, ma’am, but you may call me Scuddy. Everyone does, you see, even my parents.”
Melissande smiled and motioned for them to be seated. She ordered the staring Jenny to bring sherry for the gentlemen. She wanted gin, but knew it wouldn’t be wise of her to drink such a thing, not in front of gentlemen, not in front of this lovely young lad who had honey flowing from his tongue.
Melissande turned willingly back to Lord Harry, and was taken aback to see him gazing with a frown on his fair forehead about the small drawing room.
“My lord?” she asked. She felt a twinge of disappointment that he hadn’t continued in his praise of her person.
Hetty turned readily back to Melissande. She’d seen the novel lying upon the carpet and had made out its title a dripping, maudlin story. She smiled and said, “Oh, my dear ma’am, do forgive my wandering wits. It’s just that your parlor lovely though it may be doesn’t adequately reflect the loveliness of the person in its midst. It’s a palace you require, beautiful lady, with silken draperies and mirrors to cast your image to every corner. I would have a lutist to play for you whenever your heart desired it. I would have a minstrel sing to you of your loveliness and your goodness. I would feed you the finest of delicacies. Perhaps escargots from the finest French gardens, well cleaned and cooked, of course. One wouldn’t want to take a chance with your precious health.”
Had she gone too far? To her relief, Melissande sighed and seated herself in a graceful, languishing pose, and patted the chair beside her. Hetty cast a quick glance at Mr. Scuddimore, saw that his eyes were glazed in bewilderment, and said under her breath, “Come, Scuddy, sit down.”
“Nice house you have, ma’am,” Scuddy said. “I agree with Lord Harry. The draperies and furnishings are very nice. Er, maybe they’re not nice enough for you, but I’d take them, in a flash.”
“Thank you, Mr. Scuddimore. Ah, here is your sherry. Do allow me to pour for you, my lord.”
Hetty accepted the crystal goblet, her eyes never leaving Melissande’s face. “A toast to your eternal beauty, Aphrodite. But I am wrong. You’re a goddess in your own right. Aphrodite, bah. No, you’re now the goddess Melissande, goddess of beauty and grace.” She allowed the goblet to tremble ever so slightly in her hand, then raised it to her lips and sipped. She lowered the glass and gazed soulfully into the deep rich sherry. Her voice was intense with adoration. “But look at the depths of the color, ma’am, it glistens and glimmers with the lights of your hair. I beg you will forgive and understand my poor mutterings, dear Melissande, but these moments in your exquisite presence turn my very thoughts into water.”
Melissande made haste to reassure her slave.
“Oh no, my lord, your words are quite gratifying. Improvement would be nice, but you do well. It isn’t often that a gentleman such as yourself is so forthright and honest in his speech to me.”
It was fortunate that Hetty wasn’t sipping her sherry, for she would most assuredly have choked. So, my dear marquess, she thought gleefully, you don’t cozen your mistress with charming flattery. She is starving for it. A mistake, your grace. Now a woman will show you the way to your mistress’s heart.
“Beauty must always inspire truth, Melissande. Your face is the eternal food for gods, the gentleness of your person is the inspiration of the poets. Ah, dare I go on? No, I think not.”
Melissande was on the verge of placing herself in the slippers of the frail, weak heroine. For a brief moment, she even felt as though she could swoon in the most helpless fashion if this worshipful youth continued. If she swooned, she wondered if he would be strong enough to hold her. She controlled these fancies, and said, “Do tell me, Lord Monteith, you said you have viewed me from afar. Where, sir, was that? You see,” she added on a small sigh, “I’m not often out in company nowadays.”
“That is infamous. Dear ma’am, I cannot believe such a thing.”