Read The Tenacious Miss Tamerlane for Free Online Page B

door—everyone forgetting the great strain on
her nerves the Duke’s instructions to spread a falsehood abroad
would be to one of her sensibilities. “‘Who spits against heaven,’”
she warned the architect of the lie, “‘it falls in his face.’
Spanish Proverb.”
    Throughout this interchange Tansy had
remained silent—though dumbfounded might have been a better
description. But this last was too much. That absurd little woman,
dressed like a wedding cake and reciting words of wisdom in her
high, childish voice on one hand, and the Duke of Avanoll,
overwhelmingly masculine in this dainty room and undeniably holding
his temper only by an impressive display of rigid self-control,
swam before her mirthfully tearing eyes. Imagine, the Duke spitting
up at heaven. Better still, imagine the inevitable result. Oh, her
sides ached from trying to restrain chortles of laughter.
    It was no use. She could not resist. Rising
from her chair placed discreetly in the shadows she approached the
adversaries—one glaring, the other simpering—to add her bit to the
farce. She directed her words to the Duke: “‘Let not thine hand be
stretched out to receive and shut when thou shouldst repay.’
Ecclesiasticus.”
    Aunt Lucinda’s abused look vanished in a
twinkling as she beamed up at her champion, who wasn’t after all,
that very tall. For if one was in need of a savior, she should be
of more impressive figure than anyone of just average height.
    As Tansy candidly returned the funny little
woman’s scrutiny, the Duke tried to make amends for insulting his
aunt’s well-meant attempt at subterfuge only to be
interrupted—quite thankfully, if the truth be known, for he dearly
hated apologizing to anyone, least of all an irksome widgeon like
his aunt—when said widgeon pronounced in suitably awestruck tones:
“‘She appeared a true goddess in her wrath.’ Virgil.”
    The unlikely goddess gave a slight curtsy and
replied, “Not a goddess, I am sure, and I am at the moment anything
but wrathful, but thank you for the compliment, dear lady.”
    “Yes, well,” his grace interposed before this
show of mutual admiration got out of hand, with questions still
mainly unanswered. “Briefly, Aunt, briefly, succinctly, and to the
point if you please, tell me if your mission tonight ended in
success or failure. In short, is my sister’s reputation
intact?”
    His aunt bristled slightly but condescended
to reiterate: “‘When I’m not thank’d enough, I’ve done my duty, and
I’ve done no more.’ Fielding.”
    As Tansy hid an appreciative smile at this
sharp-as-a-saber-thrust retort, Avanoll strove for more
clarification. “You kept it simple, I hope. And I will not have to
explain away Emily’s amazing recovery from, say, cholera, in the
next few days?”
    The insulted lady sprang up from her
comfortable chair, tipped back her becurled head the better to see
this Doubting Thomas who refused to take her words (or a selection
of other people’s words) as the truth. “‘It is not every question
that deserves an answer.’ Publilius Syrus.” With that, she picked
up her voluminous skirts with the delicate repugnance often shown
when forced to step around a slimy puddle, and made to quit the
room.
    “If you would but wait a moment, dear Aunt, I
would like to express my thanks for your kind action this evening,”
the Duke cajoled.
    The lady sniffed. ‘“In fine, nothing is said
now that has not been said before.” Terence.”
    “But you will forgive me before you rush
off?”
    By this time his aunt had reached the
doorway. “‘Pardon one offense and you encourage the commission of
more.’ Syrus,” she said. Her stern visage and pudgy, waggling
finger presented a grand imitation of a Prophet of Doom,
forecasting dire consequences if she were to soften her
attitude.
    Avanoll bit out a short, pithy epithet before
the peal of his cousin’s unleashed mirth brought him back to an
awareness of his surroundings.