Blessed Offense (Sixteen Seasons) by V.R. Christensen Page A

is strong language. You know very well how troublesome that beast was.”
    “That didn’t give you the right to kill him.”
    “It was an accident.”
    “So you say.”
    “I am sorry, Caro,” he says, and appears quite sincere. But I do not want him to relent. I do not regret his marrying my sister, and I want him to know it. I take the dog from him and return to my seat opposite, holding dear Juniper II very close, as if protecting its dear little life. Which I admit may perhaps be taking it a bit far.
    “We are soon to be brother and sister,” he says now. “I would like it if we could be friends.”
    “We have had these past twenty years to learn to be friends. I’m afraid if we have not learned yet, we never shall.”
    “But it hasn’t always—”
    He stops as Celia lays her hand upon his shoulder, a worried expression on her brow. “You are not arguing again?” she asks.
    “We have formed our habits,” I answer. “I should think them quite impossible to break at this point.”
    Celia sits down between us, taking each of our hands in hers. “It is my sincerest wish,” she says, “that you will love each other as I love you both. Will you try, for me?”
    “You know you have my word,” Mr. Townsend says and squeezes her hand.
    “And you?” Celia says now as she turns to me. “Will you promise? Promise me you will at least try?”
    I do not answer right away. I, for one, am happy with matters as they are. Well, not quite happy, but reconciled at least. I see no reason to change them.
    “Caro, my dear,” Celia says, pressing for an answer.
    And when I still have none to give, she places my hand in Mr. Townsend’s. He takes it obediently and looks at me for the merest moment. I cannot endure it. I stand and excuse myself from the room, and do not look back to see what the effect of my abruptness may be on the company. Is my behaviour a little heartless? It may well be. That is, after all, what they say—that I have no heart. Why shouldn’t it be true?
    It would be better if it were true.
     
    WHEN I WAS eighteen, a very exuberant, and perhaps slightly inebriated Lynford Townsend tore the sleeve of my very best dress. I do not have to tell you I have not forgiven him.
    It was on the night of my debut. My hair was up, my corset laced to within an inch of my life, and Papa had invited some very distinguished guests. I did not mind dancing my first dance with my childhood friend. It was comfortable to dance with him. I knew he would forgive any mistakes I made. And he helped me to feel a little more confident before I was handed off to the up-and-coming and one-day-to-be-titled of my father’s acquaintances.
    Only I never got quite that far.
    I cannot recall how it happened. No doubt it was attributable to his clumsiness. He had worn his grandfather’s tie pin, which he somehow managed to catch on my new gown and ripped the shoulder from neckline to sleeve. Only there wasn’t a sleeve, and so . . .Well, let’s just say he, and several others in the room, saw more of my underpinnings that night than I have been wont to show anyone who was not familiar with our nursery and my years in it.
    Suffice it to say, it was a very short night. I quit the ball and refused to return again to it.
    But tonight it is Celia’s turn to be debuted. Her eighteenth birthday and the formal announcement of her engagement. I trust Mr. Townsend will take greater care to keep Celia’s underpinnings properly concealed.
    “You won’t dance?”
    “With you?” I ask Lynn, who has appeared very suddenly beside me. He looks well tonight. His hair droops a little over one eye and makes him look ever so slightly rakish, which he isn’t, but I suspect he likes people to think him the dashing gentleman who is ever at ease in the company of a lady. “I think I learned my lesson.”
    “You still won’t forgive me for that incident with your gown?” He laughs.
    “Not if you’re going to continue to make a joke of it,”