best friends in romance |

This excerpt gives you my hero and his best friend.

After washing off the dust of the journey and changing into clean clothes, he set out in search of a dinner. He was just about to enter a pie shop that looked clean and was busy enough to hint at tolerable food when he was hailed.

“Peter! I thought you were buried for life in the country!” He turned to see Captain John Forsythe, who had served with Peter during the Peninsular campaign and later in Belgium. As tall as Peter himself, John had dark hair while Peter’s was fair. John was altogether more massively constructed, so that he felt as strongly about the nickname ‘Bull’ as Peter did about being called ‘Beau’.

Strictly speaking, the man was Captain Lord John Forsythe, but he refused to use the honorific, saying he had done nothing to deserve it beyond being born in a marquess’s family some years after his older brother.

John looked in the doorway of the pie shop and protested. “Not here, Peter. I can do better for you than that. I’m off to my club to have dinner. You will join me, of course.”

“I thought I’d just pick up a pie,” Peter told him.

“Not enough to keep body and soul together.”

“I don’t know,” Peter protested. “Remember that pork pie in Belgium?” After Waterloo, that had been. A baker, delirious with joy at the defeat of Napoleon, had given them her entire day’s baking as they passed her establishment on their way back into Brussels. After handing most of the haul out to the men they’d managed to bring back with them, John and Peter had shared the last pie.

“Pure heaven,” John agreed. “But so is the roast beef at Westruthers, Peter. Come on. Eat with me. I want to know what you’ve been up to.” His mouth twitched upward in a smile. “And I want to tell you about my betrothed.”

“You are betrothed? John! When did that happen? Who is the unfortunate lady?” He fell into step beside his friend and listened to rhapsodies about the most perfect and lovely woman in the world all the way to the club and on through most of the two courses of a delicious meal.

Eventually, even John realized he was repeating himself. “I am sorry, Peter. You should have stopped me. You cannot be interested in where Belinda is buying her bridal clothes and what linen she has chosen for our new townhouse.”

“I need to meet the lady for whom you have become interested in such things, John.”

“Come with me tomorrow afternoon and I’ll introduce you,” John proposed, and when Peter demurred, saying that he would not want to play gooseberry, John said it was no such thing. “For I am never allowed to be alone with her, more is the pity. Even when I proposed, her mother sat on the other side of the room. And no wonder. She is a diamond, Peter, in every way. Do come along, for her drawing room will be crowded with callers and it will be good to have a friend of my own there.”

And why not, after all? His appointment with Mr. Richards was at noon, so he was sure to be free by three o’clock. “Very well. I’ll come and make the acquaintance of your paragon. When is the wedding?”

That set John off again. The date had been set for after the end of the Season, and none of John’s representations had served to move it closer. “Her mother will not hear of it,” he complained. “I promised we would remain in town so that Belinda could continue to enjoy the parties and so forth, but her mother insists. They will not even announce the betrothal, or allow me to speak of it.” He sighed.

“What does your betrothed say?” Peter wondered.

“Oh, that she cannot wait to be my wife, but she feels she owed it to her mama to abide by the lady’s wishes. And I do see that. Belinda is the Weatheralls’ only daughter, and Weatherall tells me that his wife and Belinda have spent all winter planning for the fun of the Season.”

John managed not to raise his eyebrows. “I collect that Miss Weatherall is a young lady, just out?”

“This is her third Season, but she has had a hard time of it in other years, poor dear. Girls jealous of her beauty have been very cruel to her. I cannot help but admire her courage in returning. She is wonderful, Peter, and very mature for her age, I assure you. A great reader, and feels just as she should on all the things important to me.” His eyes stared into nothing and his lips curved in a fatuous smile. “And as beautiful as the dawn.”

He continued to extol the virtues of his beloved until Peter declared himself ready for bed after his days of travel, and they parted with an arrangement to meet the following afternoon.

Whether it is fellow wallflowers, the other men at the club, old schoolfriends, or comrades in arms, the group of friends with whom our protagonists discuss–or refuse to discuss–their love life is rightfully a staple of historical romance. Here’s an excerpt from my current WIP.

By the time Arial arrived, with Regina in tow, Aunt Aurelia was up. Margaret had not expected to see her, since she normally breakfasted in bed and she was still sulking about Mr White. However, her maid must have mentioned that Margaret’s friend was expected, and so the four of them sat down for a polite cup of tea.

As Margaret poured the tea, Regina said, “I trust your cold is improved.”

Aunt Aurelia had the grace to look a little shame-faced. “I am perfectly well today, thank you.”

Margaret could not resist a small poke of revenge. “Her Grace was pleased to meet Mr White. She invited him to call on her.” She passed her aunt a cup of tea, made the way she preferred it.

Aunt Aurelia sniffed. “The Duchess of Winshire raised her husband’s base-born daughters and married a Persian. One must respect her position and her breeding, of course, but not necessarily her judgement.”

A glance at Arial and Regina showed they were trying not to laugh. Margaret gave Arial her cup.

Margaret could argue that the Duke of Winshire was as English as Aunt Aurelia, but it would be of no use. Her great aunt’s views on the class system and the superiority of the English nobility were rigid and lofty, as she proved with her next remark.

“Mr White is not of our kind. Add to that, one suspects, from his appearance, that he is an irregular connection of the house of Snowden, and I am disappointed in Margaret for lowering herself to encourage him. As I told her, Lady Stancroft, it will not do her any good with her worthy suitors to be seen in that man’s company.”

As Margaret served Regina, she decided it was time to assert herself. “Thank you, Aunt Aurelia. You have made your opinion perfectly clear. However, if any of my suitors were worthy of my attention, they would not be offended by my doing a favour for the man who saved my life.”

“Which he would not have had to do, Margaret, if you had not been in a place you should never have gone. But there. I do not know why I bother. You were a rebellious child and a foolish girl. You have become a stubborn woman. I am going to my rooms. Good day, Lady Stanbrook, Mrs Ashby.” She clattered her cup back into her saucer and flounced out of the room.

She was getting worse. Her criticisms and complaints had never been made in front of guests before. Margaret was going to have to retire her to the country and hire a companion.

“I apologise for that scene,” she said to her friends. She managed to keep her voice level, though her hand trembled as she lifted her cup.

“No apology needed,” Regina assured her. “You behaved with dignity, Margaret.”

“We are not responsible for the misbehaviour our relatives,” Arial agreed. “Do not worry about it, Margaret.”

Regina frowned. “Is it common for her to speak to you like that in front of guests? Or is it just that she knows we can be trusted?”

Regina voiced Margaret’s own concerns. “She has been becoming more querulous. I think it is time for her to retire. I hate to hurt her feelings, but such scolds in front of the wrong audience could…” She trailed off, quailing at the thought of such public embarrassment

“She could damage your reputation with a misplaced word,” Arial agreed. “People will believe she has cause for her comments.”

Margaret nodded. After a moment’s silence, she said, “I do not suppose that is why you called.”

Regina grinned at Margaret over her own cup. “We were both very impressed by your Mr White. He is…” she appeared to be searching the ceiling for a word.”

“Delectable,” Arial offered. “You have been holding out on us, Margaret. You told us that he was stern and borderline rude. You did not tell us that he was almost as beautiful as Peter.”

To Arial, no one was as handsome as her husband, and she had a point. Margaret had become accustomed to his appearance since she met him two years ago, but considered dispassionately, he was breath-taking.

“Mr White is certainly easy on the eyes,” she conceded. At the least.

“That is all you have to say?” Regina asked. “Margaret, darling, we watched you dance with him. Twice. You cannot tell me you are not attracted to him, and he to you. He could hardly take his eyes off you all night.

Really?

“She is blushing,” Arial told Regina.

“It is not like that,” Margaret insisted. “Yes, he is an attractive man, especially when he is not acting like a bear with a sore paw, but he is not interested in me in that way, and if he was, I could not possibly consider him as a suitor.”

Regina raised an eyebrow. “Because he is from the slums and perhaps base-born?” she asked.

“Those things matter, Regina,” Arial said. “You know they do, even if we all agree they shouldn’t. Margaret needs to think of her future children.”

“I have no idea where Mr White is truly from or what his intentions are in confronting the Snowdens,” Margaret told them. “That is why I cannot see him as anything more than a temporary escort. I cannot trust a man who keeps secrets from me. Not that he owes me an explanation. I am merely returning favour for favour.”

Arial sipped her tea while she considered that remark. “He is still delectable,” she said, decisively. “If nothing else, he makes a very attractive accessory to a lady in a ball gown.”