Free Lady Flora's Fantasy by Shirley Kennedy Page A

young woman who was fast becoming enamored of his supposed best friend, and whose manners were atrocious?
    Well, he shouldn't, he didn't, and he wouldn't.
    A pox on Lady Flora Winton. He had more important things to think about than a completely hopeless cause. In fact, he'd only come to London in order to see the latest offerings at Tattersol's, and would not have dreamed of attending the ball had not Richard talked him into it. His attendance had nothing to do with Lady Flora.
    Sidney, you're a liar , came a voice within, a voice he stilled immediately. He had too much pride to even think of entertaining lascivious thoughts about a rude young woman who didn't know his name and walked away from him. He might worry about her, though. Yes, he would permit himself to feel concern for that poor, weak girl who, because of her stubbornness and bad sense, was falling in love with one of the most devious rakes in all England.
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 5
     
    Halfway through the Season, Flora sat in the drawing room of the family's London town house, taking tea with her parents and sister. It was one of the rare afternoons they were not receiving visitors or had gone calling themselves.
    "You seem quite cheerful of late, Flora," her mother said. "Don't you agree, George?"
    "Quite," responded Lord Rensley. He eyed his older daughter over the top of his spectacles. "You've been seeing a lot of that Dashwood chap, haven't you? At least the fellow comes from an excellent blood line. I suppose you know he's the heir presumptive of Charles Fraser, Earl of Dinsmore?"
    As usual, Flora's heart executed a flutter of excitement at the sound of Lord Dashwood's name. She chose to ignore the way her father said, 'at least,' although she wondered what he meant. "I have yet to meet Lord Dinsmore, but I have certainly heard enough about him. He's one of England's greatest heroes."
    "Indeed, the man's a legend." Her father harumphed and signaled the butler. "Time for my pill, Trent, the 'Dr. Warens,' if you please. Bring it here." He returned his attention to Flora. "I could spend the day relating Dinsmore's exploits on the field of battle. Egypt...India...what a grand soldier he was. Most courageous ."
    "And quite a dashing figure," added Lady Rensley.
    "Now, alas–" Lord Rensley took the pill Trent proffered and washed it down with a swallow of tea "—poor health notwithstanding, I am better off than Dinsmore." As an afterthought, he muttered, "If you could believe such a thing."
    "He's sick now, Papa?" Flora asked politely. She wasn't too concerned over her father's health because her whole life she'd heard him complaining of various ailments that never seemed to materialize.
    "Dinsmore's not sick," her father went on. "Last I heard, he was still in possession of his health. That is, he's not suffering from any disease. It's the injuries that keep him at his country estate most of the time." He shook his head and clucked with sympathy. "The man's a wreck. Lost an eye in Egypt. Got thrown from his steed at some battle or other in India and banged up his leg. Now he walks with a limp. At Seedaseer his face was slashed with a saber. He never looked right after that. I suspect that's what keeps him practically a hermit."
    "Such a pity," chimed Lady Rensley. "I knew him before the scar and all those other dreadful wounds. Such a handsome man he was, and quite the swashbuckler. But now..." She shrugged and made a little moué. "The ladies used to swoon over him. Now they turn away in horror, what with that dreadful scar on his face. These days they swoon over his heir." She glanced fondly at Flora. "Popular though Lord Dashwood is, though, it appears our daughter has a definite edge."
    To Flora's surprise, her father did not express his delight but instead issued an unresponsive, "Hmm."
    She had to know. "You don't appear enthused in the slightest, Papa. May I ask why?" A touch of trepidation ran through her. Did her father find Dashwood less than