Free Autumn Glory and Other Stories by Bárbara Metzger

stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. “And no, I didn’t want to dance with you. I wanted to hold you in my arms again. I wanted—I want—to make love to you. I want to marry you. I love you, Glory. J’t’aime, te amo, ich du lieber… ”
    “You love me?” She still couldn’t believe it.
    “With all my heart. I know it’s been a short time, Glory, but do you think you can come to love me a little?”
    “No, for I already love you so much I thought I would burst with it.” This required another long kiss filled with promise, then a question. “Winn, do you believe in love at first sight?”
    “How can I not? And I believe it will be love at the first sight of you each and every day of our lives. Now come, let us go make your father the second happiest of men.” And he waltzed her back through the balcony doors to the dance floor. “What do you think would happen if I were to kiss you right here?” he murmured during one of the turns.
    “I think Mama would swoon and Papa would halt the music to announce our betrothal. Please do.” He laughed and did, even though the music had been finished for ages.
    *
    Lord Bannister hosted the fall hunt, and Lady Bannister held the annual autumn ball. Both were memorable occasions in the neighborhood society, but never more than that year.

The Management Requests

1
    Proper supervision.
    Captain Arthur Hunter was limping badly. He would always and forever be limping badly, but he wouldn’t be Captain Hunter for long. No, as soon as the War Office accepted his resignation, Arthur would be Viscount Huntingdon, an honor he wished for almost as much as he wished for that cannon blast at Ciudad de Santos. Deuce take it, he’d managed to survive Bonaparte; his brother Henry might have tried to survive that curricle race to Brighton. Arthur never wanted to succeed his brother, and he never wanted to be stumbling through Mayfair leaning on a cane, and he sure as the devil never wanted to be playing diplomatic dogsbody to foreign dignitaries. Unfortunately, he spoke German, in several dialects. And he’d been of some assistance at the peace talks. And the prince regent wanted his officers marched through the streets like conquering heroes for the victory fetes.
    Victory, hell. The country should be in mourning for all the good men lost. Yes, the Peninsular War was finally over, but at such a cost no one should be celebrating. Try telling that to those fools at the War Office, though. All they were concerned with was the next parade. So what if the poor infantry soldiers were being dumped back on the streets with no jobs, no pensions, no way to support their families? They had their new medals and ribbons, didn’t they? Bah!
    Arthur would have traded every gewgaw and grosgrain for the chance to go home to the country, to learn to manage the family’s properties, to be out of the deuced public eye. Instead he was suffering through another barrage, this time of bombast instead of cannonballs. Devil take it, if he’d wanted to be a sauntering park soldier he’d have joined the Horse Guards. If he’d wanted to be a swaggering swell with a smooth tongue he’d have joined the diplomatic corps.
    And if he’d wanted to stay at the family residence in Cavendish Square, he wouldn’t be limping halfway across Town. He’d learn to ride again, he swore, but not in view of the ton , so Arthur supposed he’d have to purchase himself a curricle. His brother’s, by all reports, was reduced to kindling. Meanwhile, the streets were so congested Captain Hunter had left the hackney to walk. Even at his slow rate, he’d get to Huntingdon House sooner. And the sooner he’d paid his respects to Henry’s widow, the sooner he could remove his dress uniform, rest his aching leg, and resort to a bottle of wine.
    Seven years older than Arthur’s eight and twenty, Sylvia, Lady Huntingdon, still treated him like a sticky-faced schoolboy. A series of miscarriages had ruined her looks; knowing