A Mummers' Play
““Nonsense,” said Miss Justina Travers coolly. “And I do wish you’d stop referring to me as a girl, Charles. I’m twenty-three years old.”
Lord Ormsbury’s plain but honest face pinkened slightly. “That’s not a terribly advanced age and”—he cleared his throat—“I do think of you as dear.”
“How can you say that? You don’t pay me a penny.”
Though Justina spoke with carefully judged playfulness and softened the words with a smile, she wanted to scream.
Not Charles too.
She was so tired of besotted men. The fact that she still wore mourning three years after Simon’s death should be warning enough. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to her older sister. Marina had warned, rather enviously, that black suited healthy blonds all too well.
Perhaps she should finally move into half-mourning, for grays and mauves had never become her.
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