A Lady in Love

Chapter One

Should I really be honored that someone wrote a poem for me? I detest poems. They're a bore -- and my name does not rhyme with margarine! Good heavens, attending to my suitors can be a tedious (and rather horrifying) task at times. It's a good thing my dear Archer is always on time to rescue me...

- From the diary of Margaret Swinton, 4 July 1950

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"'My love for you is like a dove

So soft and yet so rough.

If I could ever compare you to one thing

I'd say it would be margarine.

One kiss is all I am asking for

Pure bliss is what I'll feel

Before I head for the door.

So dear, dear countess

I --"

"Thank you, Henry," I said haughtily, "I do appreciate the time you've spent writing that poem for me -- ehm, how long did you say it took you?"

Henry Carmichael, a young mister without a penny in his pocket, grinned at me in his seat as he leaned forward to take my hand. "Eight hours," he replied magnanimously, looking at all his rivals smugly. "You see, I had to think hard and, once I finally found my rhythm, I wrote the poem with passion."

"I can tell you wrote it with such passion, Mr. Carmichael," I said dryly. "Comparing me to margarine and stating that your love for me is like a dove that is so soft, yet so rough is highly eloquent." I stared at him behind the rim of my teacup, one gold eyebrow arcing vertically. "I am very admired. So very admired."

Dolt that he was, Henry beamed at my praise, glaring when one of my other suitors laughed at him. He sat back and gazed at me longingly.

I confess, I truly was a vision that afternoon in my parents' country house in Newcastle. My shoulder-length hair was curled to perfection, glistening like spun gold in the afternoon light from the window behind me. My skin was all peaches and cream, and my eyes were bright baby blues that glittered as I stared at all my handsome suitors. I was in a beautiful pink day dress that complemented my fair features, and to complete it all, a tea set and tray of fabulous tarts was on the table in front of me, making me look like one of my mother's delicate china figurines.

I was usually in a good mood when my suitors visited me (not really) and they were composed as true gentlemen would act (they were trying so very hard to get a praise and for me to notice them, poor ducks). But really, it was becoming such a bore! The last straw was when Henry recited his done-in-only-eight-hours-poem entitled Margaret is my Margarine in front of everyone. I'd wanted to sink and meld as one with the floor.

I wasn't even that very patient nor was I angelic, truth be told. But the chaps still wouldn't give up. Blast them.

I was a young woman who had a title and no husband. I was a countess and therefore, as rich as Cleopatra had once been. I knew some of them were courting me because they were after my money. It made me want to laugh out loud. I may be blond, but how stupid did they think I was? Bah!

At that moment, Lord Bastian Crawford bravely sat in the settee in which I was the only one occupying, making the others grumble at his brazenness. He leaned forward quite a bit but I remained sipping my tea elegantly, blinking up at him. He was a handsome youth with auburn hair and tantalising green eyes; but redheaded men were usually hotheaded (not that I wasn't, because I certainly was that.)