Free The reluctant cavalier by Karen Harbaugh

breeze touched his face with the cool hand of night. The air, fresh and clean from last night's rain, filled his lungs as he breathed. No gloom threatened this morning. He felt... happy.
    He laughed and ran the rest of the way to the lake, a good half mile. There, he quickly took off his clothes and dived into the cold water headfirst.
    The shock of the cold water made him gasp when he surfaced. He had done this many times—every day, unless the weather was freezing cold. It cleared his mind of sleep, and he always came out of it feeling cleansed and ready to meet the day.
    But this morning exhilaration sang through his limbs, and his arms and legs seemed to pull and kick with increased length and strength. She—Miss Annabella Smith-had spoken to him and laughed and smiled at him. He had not been clumsy around her—not much, anyway—and she seemed to like him. Perhaps there was hope for him, and it was possible to court her. Oh, he had still not as much to offer her as the Duke of Stratton, but even he could see that she felt more comfortable around him, Parsifal, than the duke.
    He flipped over in midstroke, and floated upon his back. The horizon just above the trees was turning pink now, against an increasingly brightening sky, but he frowned suddenly, not seeing the beauty of it, for memories of the evening before flickered in his mind. There had been something wrong ... no, perhaps that was not the word. Everyone knew the duke was a man of honor, a man with an impeccable reputation and easy address. And yet he, Parsifal, had never liked him. He had acknowledged it was no doubt because the duke was everything Parsifal was not: urbane, pleasant, always at the height of elegant fashion, and an excellent conversationalist.
    Parsifal had, however, caught the Duke of Stratton's angry glance when he and Miss Smith entered the Bower-lands' drawing room. It was quickly hidden, and Parsifal would have thought he had imagined it, had he not been used to watching carefully the expressions of those around him. He felt uneasy. There had been something proprietary in the duke's expression. That was nothing in itself, especially if the duke was interested in Miss Smith—and who would not be interested in her? There was something else, however.
    Once more, Parsifal swam across the lake, this time with slow, meditative strokes. He pondered last night's card party, and his and Miss Smith's entrance into the drawing room. The guests' expressions had been at first speculative, then disinterested, but that was all ... except for the duke's.
    Well, that was to be expected if the duke had an interest in her. But the duke's expression had been cold, and not directed upon Parsifal, but upon Miss Smith, and her face had shown a brief discomfort as she glanced at the duke in return.
    There was no real reason why she should feel uncomfortable about entering the drawing room with Parsifal. He had left the drawing room after she had departed to mend her dress, to be sure, but her departure and the ending of his card game seemed to have signaled a break in the activity amongst the guests. Everyone had risen to walk about or leave the room briefly. Anyone might have come back into the room with her; that he had done so was not remarkable at all.
    The guests had not resumed any card playing, but sat about talking, their voices an ebb and flow of sound. Parsifal had watched as Miss Smith nodded pleasantly to the duke and took a step toward him, then allowed herself to be distracted by another guest. Did the duke have some claim on her or not?
    He regretted, suddenly, that he had never made much of a push to go out into society. If he had, he would know more about Miss Smith's situation and whether the duke had been courting her. Perhaps .. . perhaps it would be a good thing to go to more assemblies and balls, if only to find out if there was any talk of an impending marriage between Miss Smith and the Duke of Stratton.
    Slowly, he swam toward the shore