Royal pen’s purple prose

MONTAGU House, London, Wednesday, July 19, 1865.

‘Ah, there you are! It’s fast approaching midnight, my dear.’ Lord Rufus Ponsonby, the Earl of Killin, was considered by most to be a presentable-looking man. His angular jaw was invariably clean-shaven; his hair was perfectly coiffed. His tall, rather lean figure was always immaculately dressed.

His aquiline profile was suitably haughty as befitted an earl of the realm. Every aspect of him was austere, repressed, and calculated.

Lady Margaret Montagu Douglas Scott took an involuntary step back as he loomed over her. ‘I’m all too aware of that.’ As ever, he seemed oblivious to her prickly reaction to him.

‘Why are you skulking in the shadows? Perhaps you are fretting about your attire,’ he continued, answering his own question. ‘Allow me to reassure you. Your gown is neither too simple nor too ornate for the occasion. All young ladies in their first Season wear white.’

‘Look at me,’ Margaret persisted, ‘don’t you think I resemble a ghost at my own betrothal party? I am, quite literally, a spectre at the feast.’

‘I think your tendency to be fanciful is coming to the fore.’ His lordship, his attention on his watch, didn’t notice the note of suppressed hysteria in her tone. Lord Rufus checked his gold timepiece against the ballroom clock, frowning, checking again, making a minor adjustment, then checking it one last time before snapping the case closed and returning it to his waistcoat pocket.

‘We had better join your parents for the announcement,’ he said. ‘They will be getting anxious.’

‘I think if anyone has a right to be anxious,’ she said, smiling through gritted teeth, ‘it should be me. My life is about to change for ever, after all.’

Though he smiled in return, it was a token effort that failed to be reflected his eyes. ‘We are on the brink of a new life together, Lady Margaret. I for one am eager to embrace it.’