Myriah Fire
“Dark brows and curling lashes accentuated the almond shape of the blue-green eyes. Champagne organza fell alluringly about a form as delicate as it was provocative, yet the owner of these enviable attributes gazed at her reflection in the gilt-edged looking glass and sighed deeply.
A maid popped her linen-covered head into Lady Myriah’s dressing room and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Tch tch, m’lady, here you be, idling your time away with your papa that anxious for you down in the ballroom! Why, gracious, the music is sweet to hear, and the dancers looking fine as five pence … and here you be, looking that sad! Why, it fair sets me in a huff, it does!” said the middle-aged woman, taking all the liberty that years of faithful service had won her.
Lady Myriah raised an eyebrow, and there was warning in her look though her tone was light. “Now, now, love, don’t be hipped with me. ’Twould never do! I don’t see why I must go down just yet, especially when I feel disinclined.”
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