To Each Her Own
Lord Wolfridge was settled quite comfortably in Carmichael's library, idly perusing a superbly translated and illustrated edition of Dante's Inferno, when the door swung open forcefully. He looked up in surprise, not expecting his host for another half hour at least, and to his greater surprise, encountered not Henry Carmichael, but the female version of him. Like Henry, the girl was tall, slim, and fair, but she did not possess his friendly, open smile and easy posture. She seemed absoutely frozen with disdain, her blue eyes icy, her back straight as a rod.
"You're not Carmichael," he noted mildly, casually setting aside the book at rising to his feet.
"I am a Carmichael," she replied tightly, barely releasing her lips from their grim line to spit out the words.
"So I gathered," he answered, dropping his glance from her eyes to her hem and back in a brief but insolent inspection. Her cheeks instantly brightened with anger, warming her wintery expression in a fashion much to his liking. "In the absence of a suitable third party, please allow me to present myself. Pierce Weylin, at your service." Wolfridge grinned and bowed.
"Anne Carmichael." The ice that coursed through her veins clearly did not render her immobile, for she executed a very graceful curtsey and allowed a faint, obligatory smile to grace her lips. She said nothing further, but resumed her contemptuous observation. For the life of him, Wolfridge couldn't imagine why she had burst into the library in high dudgeon to engage in a staring contest, but the challenge amused him. He made no further attempts at conversation, but rather folded his arms and boldly returned her gaze.
What should Anne do?
"You're not Carmichael," he noted mildly, casually setting aside the book at rising to his feet.
"I am a Carmichael," she replied tightly, barely releasing her lips from their grim line to spit out the words.
"So I gathered," he answered, dropping his glance from her eyes to her hem and back in a brief but insolent inspection. Her cheeks instantly brightened with anger, warming her wintery expression in a fashion much to his liking. "In the absence of a suitable third party, please allow me to present myself. Pierce Weylin, at your service." Wolfridge grinned and bowed.
"Anne Carmichael." The ice that coursed through her veins clearly did not render her immobile, for she executed a very graceful curtsey and allowed a faint, obligatory smile to grace her lips. She said nothing further, but resumed her contemptuous observation. For the life of him, Wolfridge couldn't imagine why she had burst into the library in high dudgeon to engage in a staring contest, but the challenge amused him. He made no further attempts at conversation, but rather folded his arms and boldly returned her gaze.
What should Anne do?