Free The Defiant Lady Pencavel by Diane Scott Lewis Page A

reluctant to let her go. “Return home to Cornwall. I will meet you at Langoron House in a fortnight. If you aren’t there, I warn you, the betrothal will stand.” He kicked the horse’s flanks and rode off, past the palace, the palace gardens, through the cool scent of woodland, and away from her enraged blue eyes, like pools of frozen ponds.
    ****
     
    On Great Russell Street in London’s Bloomsbury district, Melwyn climbed the several steps of the British Museum, housed in the slowly deteriorating Montague House. She admired the grand seventeenth-century mansion’s façade of seventeen bays, with a slightly projecting three bay centre and three bay ends. The two-storied building had a prominent mansard roof with a dome over the centre.
    “I dearly hope that impetuous lout of a viscount has returned to Cornwall, which I refuse to do yet, on principle.” Lambrick’s threat to her only served to stiffen her resolve to ignore him...for a time. His last kiss had curled her toes, and confused her mightily. “He can’t possibly force me to marry him.”
    Aunt Hedra followed, adjusting her bonnet—a white and purple striped sarcenet hat, with an embroidered purple border. The item, trimmed round the crown with a rose-colored gauze handkerchief, clung to the top of her hair like a misplaced scarf. “You must stop this stubborn insistence on enriching your mind. Someday you will wish to marry, and you don’t want to appear smarter than your husband. Men don’t appreciate that. And wasn’t Lord Lambrick quite the bon vivant , snatching you in the park?”
    “He’s an unabashed roué , who keeps taunting me over this betrothal. And I believe you’ve misinterpreted the meaning of bon vivant, Auntie.” Melwyn stared around at shadows as she primped at her demi-gipsy hat, trimmed with green ribands that formed a large bow in the front. “I trust your friend today will be much more deserving of my attention than the pathetic Mr. Fernworthy.”
    “I will humor your aspirations, or at least pretend to.” Aunt Hedra puffed out her cheeks. “Mrs. Anna Bookbinder is a well-known writer here in town, and she expounds on the edification and education of women.”
    “And she’s a member of the Bluestockings, that famous literary circle. I have read a few of her treatises on women’s rights: Measure my Brain as it’s the same size as a Man’s, and just as Rational, No matter what You’ve Heard , was especially enjoyable.” Melwyn entered the cool interior of the museum, anxious to visit Sir William Hamilton’s collection of Greek and Roman artifacts.
    A tall reed-thin woman approached them. “Hedra, good afternoon. This must be your niece. Why, isn’t she precious.” Her long face with aquiline nose broke into a skeptical smile. “A fledgling archeologist did I hear, young lady?”
    “I am indeed honored to meet you, Mrs. Bookbinder. I’m Melwyn Pencavel.” Melwyn took in the woman’s severe attire, a closed robe grey gown with a starched white kerchief tucked in the bodice. She resembled a nun without the wimple, and was the cliché of a bluestocking.
    Melwyn compared it to her own dress, a round gown of striped muslin, the train trimmed with a broad green satin riband; the short full sleeves trimmed with lace. Just because a woman had brains didn’t mean she had to look frumpy.
    “I’m sure you are, as I am a clever expert in numerous fields, and though a spinster, I rail against marriage as a slavery for women. They can be beaten by their husbands if they misbehave, and he determines what constitutes misbehavior.” Mrs. Bookbinder nodded her hatchet face. “You must read my newest publication: A Few Women are only Stupid because their Men have beat them Silly .”
    “That sounds riveting. And is why I’ll never marry. Do you delve into the sciences at all?” Melwyn surveyed the famous Warwick Vase, a marble receptacle with Bacchic—wine-related—ornamentation, found at Hadrian’s villa in