Like No Other

Chapter 1: The Ballroom Imbroglio

        Lord Ethan Wickham was an eloquent young man, whose passionate nature was not unknown to several circles, though apparently regarded with little abhorrence by the objects of his affection: one could not help but notice how Miss Lorrington contrived to be free from his clutches the moment it reached her.     

        “Indeed, there’s no nightmare, sir! Only there’s Lord Stokeford!”  

     “Lord Stokeford— that cull! What did he do to you? Where is he?” His eyes narrowed dangerously as they roamed the premises, looking for his quarry.

     It was Miss Debery who supplied the answer, and not without a little exaggeration. “Only the most appalling thing, to be sure! Telling her rudely to shove her and all, and glaring at her like she did the very worst thing, when in fact his shoe hasn’t a speck of dust on it!” Apparently the last statement was a bluff; she never really bothered to look for Lord Stokeford and crouch over his shoe to attest it.                

        "That bastard,” muttered Lord Wickham under his breath, soft enough not to reach the ladies’ ears. His anxious countenance turned into a black look; the young peer was more than ready for a fisticuff. Damn him for inflicting distress on his sweet and fragile muse! And to stand there without doing anything! Yes, by Jove, he would give the Earl a piece of his mind, and after that…

        “Well, the deuce take me if I’d let this pass!”

     “But Lord Wickham!” Miss Debery was now increasingly alarmed at the young lord’s expression, and mentally begging for some Divine intervention against the imminent outburst. “Whatever do you mean?”

    The indignant, and utterly foolish Lord Wickham declared before he could give any true meaning to his words: “I’ll demand satisfaction for offending Miss Lorrington!” 

      Gracious heavens, worse than fisticuffs after all! Miss Lorrington’s jaw dropped, Miss Lennox’s countenance whitened even more, and Miss Debery’s grey eyes widened. 

        “NO!” they calmored in unison.

             * * * * * * * *

     There was no doubt that such riveting conversation never failed to reach the ears of the older patrons from the nearby circle, and no sooner had the young ones exhausted the topic, than Lord Stokeford’s name was being bandied again in a discussion, with the Duke of Carlton being the first to allude it to his companions. “Stokeford’s as stuffy as ever, eh?” said His Grace offhandedly.

     “No wonder he’s got bad blood with Wickham. Both stuffy, they are,” replied the Viscount Giles with a smug smile while eyeing the young lord, who was at the moment under the ministrations of the debutantes (whose protestations were presently keeping him from calling out the Earl). The Viscount mused uncharitably that Wickham, possessing more pluck than sense, would never stand a chance against a marksman like Stokeford. Doughty as hound he might be, but Lord Giles would lay a monkey there would be no danger of him damaging a tree limb even at the distance of ten paces.

    “All the same, he is a handsome man, I should say. A pity he’s a misogynist!” sighed the coquettish Lady Mathilda.

     “Wickham?” asked the Duke incredulously. The lady in return looked at him under her brows and replied rather impetuously, “Why, Stokeford, of course! Goodness, have you ever consulted a dictionary, Duke?"

      His Grace made a harrumphing sound at this jab, but wisely curbed his tongue from retorting.

     “But he isn’t at all a misogynist!” put in Miss Penningbrooke, shaking her head vigorously. “It’s only rare to see Lord Stokeford in a lady’s company, for heaven knows half of the ladies here in London’s afraid of him!”