’ ‘Parbleu, it is I who am the idiot?’ she scolded furiously, removing one hand and digging it into her sleeve. ’ At last. You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’ ‘West Kent, yes. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. ’ Melusine swung away and moved to stare dully out of the window of the little chapel vestry onto the mews outside. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair.
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