'Has the cat stolen your tongue perhaps?' She sneered.
Braeden's eyebrows arched cynically. The hoyden has gall!
'You have some interest in my tongue then?' He took a step towards her threateningly.
Fallon huffed at his impertinence. She needed to put an end to this prig's audacious behaviour.
' Neither your tongue nor any other part of your anatomy interests me in the slightest manner___ my lord,' her chin flew up snobbishly. ‘Good bye.’ I should not forget, he desires my sister! Fallon gathered the folds of her skirts and hastily made her way into the dance room again. She shall not waste another second on that___that reprobate.

‘Ah Lady Fallon, there you are.’ Drew smiled. ‘I have been searching for you. I had hoped to take you into supper.’

‘Yes,’ she breathed a sigh of relief and nodded to the Marquis of Dunbar, Drew Frewer. ‘I would love that.’ She was safe with Drew. He was a respectable gentleman. Though not unattractive, Drew was not blessed with generous good looks as that rogue, it was also fortunate that Drew had his eye on Lady Carissa. Drew liked that Fallon saw him as a friend and not Marriage Mart material.

How easily that rogue was able to charm women to dance to his tune. Fallon fumed inwardly that he already had another unsuspecting young maiden on his arm. He was not yet ready to go into supper it seemed. For he was leading the young lady back into the very garden they had just vacated. Damn pious prig!

The following morning, in the Fulham residence, Fallon was rather non-committal at the breakfast table. She aimlessly tossed around the pancake in her breakfast plate, adding another dollop of honey. She was still seething from the discourteous manner that excuse for an earl had adopted with her last night. She cast a wary eye at her parents, the Baron and Baroness Fulham, fortunately for Fallon her parents were preoccupied, perusing invitations and debating which to accept. Had they looked in her direction and observed her fallen countenance. Lady Fulham would demand to know why her younger daughter was scowling.

Fallon knew she and Emma had an appointment at Madam Claire, the modiste on Bond Street this morning. They were to be measured for new gowns for the autumn season. How she wished she could just escape to the lending library for the rest of the day. She would much rather soak up on the reading of Charlotte Brontë or Arthur Conan Doyle. Fallon dipped her head, hiding a smile. Lord Fulham would take a hide to her backside, if he caught his daughter reading Conan Doyle. He opined, she was a lady and should read books that improved her deportment not adventure stories. Emma had a smile as bright as the sun and seemed to have her head in the clouds for obvious reasons, Fallon guessed.

‘I take it you have an escort to the Opera,’ Fallon ventured.

‘Yes,’ Emma grinned at her sister. She assumed Fallon guessed it was the viscount taking her. Fallon chastised herself silently at her rage that Emma was to be escorted by him. She should not exhibit such covetousness against her own sister, yet she could not help herself. She was only human. The heart is wicked above all things, who can control it?

The business of the invitations concluded, Lady Fulham smiled at her daughters. She enquired from both if they had enjoyed the previous evening. She was more curious to discover how Fallon’s come out Ball went at Almack’s Assembly Room. Neither of her daughters volunteered much information. Emma was too shy and insecure to assume anything could come of her dance with Arthur. He had danced with many partners and so had she. Perhaps on Friday at the Opera... Fallon was still boiling with rage to even contemplate the success of her evening, not that she’d received any offers. So how could she offer her mama any positive response? Instead she preferred to hold her cards close to her chest. Surely she could not tell her parents the Earl of Hampton the rake__the reprobate___the scoundrel had almost compromised her! Whatever would her father say? Surely he would call out Hampton and why was she fearfully convinced that if her father did call Braeden out it would not be her father still standing?

Fallon determined it was time to get even with Braeden Kerrich, Earl of Hampton and with a shrewd smile duly put her wicked plan into action.

The butler arranged the napkin and silverware in front of Braeden. He was ravenous. He looked hungrily at the spicy lamb sausages, helping himself to three of them. He added a few rashers of bacon to his plate. There was still place on his plate for some scrambled eggs and toast.

‘Coffee please,’ Braeden rubbed his hands together, eager to tuck into his feast.

‘Yes my lord,’ the butler hurriedly complied.

‘Thank you Kilner,’ Braeden dug heartily into his bacon and eggs.

‘Should the horses be prepared for a visit to your townhouse in St. James’s Square my lord?’

His official seat was here in Kensington. He had a sprawling estate where he enjoyed taking his Arabian stallions for a brisk run each morning. Braeden was about to answer in the affirmative and put another fork full of food into his mouth when his grandmother paused his appetite.

‘Hampton, good morning.’

He stared as her cane poked into the expensive carpet. ‘Grandmeré,’ he set down his knife and fork.

‘I wish to pay calls this morning,’ she met his eyes squarely.

‘I shall arrange a chaise for you,’ he swallowed his coffee.

‘I would like you to accompany me,’ she instructed.

Appetite lost, Braeden groaned into his napkin. He knew what her plan was, to line up eligible maidens for him. Would Lady Fallon be on that imaginary list?

-end chapter two-

The Rebellious Lady Fallon: Historical FictionRead this story for FREE!