Free Dancing the Maypole by Cari Hislop Page B

ease. I
could organise a house party to introduce you properly, but I doubt
she’d come.”
    “Don’t bother,”
said Peter. “If she came, she’d ignore me. She hates me.” He tried
to cover his eyes with his burnt hand and winced in pain. “I’m too
old for love; too b-big, too stupid…too bloody late.”
    “If you say
so.”
    “Hell’s teeth!
Shall I lie on the floor so you can kick me in the spleen?”
    “If you think
you’re too late for love, then you are. Personally, I fail to see
how you could be too old, too stupid, or too late. So you’ve made
an ass of yourself. You’re a man not a piece of wood, it was bound
to happen eventually.”
    “Thank you
Agnes…I feel worse.” His anguish earned him a raised eyebrow.
    “You’re a good
man Peter, but you’re not the faultless hero you imagine yourself
to be. Reality has slapped you in the face, and you’re adrift
without your precious self-image.”
    “Are you made
of marble?” Peter snarled. “Can’t you say something soothing;
something that might persuade me you have blood in your veins?”
    The woman
calmly sipped her tea unmoved by the insult. “If you want a woman
to feed you lies, look no farther than the nearest Assembly Rooms.
They’re filled with desperate women willing to say anything to win
a comfortable home. Is that what you want Peter?”
    “I’m sorry
Agnes. That was unspeakably rude. I don’t know what’s come over
me.”
    “You needn’t
feel guilty about not liking me Peter. I wouldn’t want to be
shipwrecked on a desert island with you either. If you want to find
love you have to know who you are. You have to know what you want.
Do you know what you want?”
    “Yes…” The
drawing room blurred as Peter imagined entering his dark blue
bedchamber at Adderbury to find Isabel naked on his bed with an
inviting smile. Her hair would be undone…perfuming his room…
    “Well Peter?
What is it you want?”
    The feminine
arms wrapped around his neck vanished. “I want a wife.”
    “Say it
Peter!”
    “Say what?”
    “The name of
the woman making you blush.”
    Peter bent over
and glared into his teacup as if transfixed by the warped
reflection of his face. “What’s the p-p-point? C’est
impossible.”
    “Why is it
impossible? Is she some nubile debutante in love with Cecil?”
    “Non.”
    “Is she
married?”
    “Non!”
    “Is she in love
with some other man?”
    The question
made Peter feel seasick as he imagined Isabel making love to a
German prince. “It doesn’t matter. She hates me.”
    “Isabel doesn’t
hate you.”
    “I’ve been a…a
b-big stupid cow.”
    “You’re a good
man Peter, better than most. Have a biscuit and stop thinking like
a Romeo. If you want to be alive at the end of the play with Isabel
in your arms, you need to think of ways to win her.”
    “There’s no
p-p-point!”
    “Isabel’s been
mooning over you for eighteen years. Unless your marital fireworks
are made of wet gun powder, you’ll be her hero until she dies.
After a few days of wishing you to the devil, she’ll regret her
words. She’ll be hoping for some romantic gesture.”
    For the first
time in days, Peter felt a pang of hope, “What sort of
gesture?”
    “Something
romantic. Make an ass of yourself, it’s endearing. Isabel writes
romances. Memorise some ghastly poetry and whisper it at her every
time she snubs you. Send her bespoke tokens of your esteem. Do
something romantic; dress like a hero.”
    Peter looked
down at his black suit and back to his sister-in-law. “What’s wrong
with the way I dress?”
    “All you wear
is black,” said Agnes. “It’s boring. You look like a widower.”
    “I am a
widower.”
    “You look like
you’re in mourning. Isabel loves lavender. Order a lavender silk
suit.”
    Peter grimaced
in horror, “A lavender silk suit? I’d look like a giant
f-f-fop-doodle.”
    “If you want to
be noticed, order a romantic wardrobe.”
    “It would be a
waste of money. I’ll never