Ela

“Are you—” There seemed no way to say it but to say it. “Your Grace, are you trying to get me into your bed?”
“Yes. Nightly. I said as much, not a minute ago. Are you listening at all?”
“Listening, yes,” she muttered to herself. “Comprehending, no.”
“I’ll have my solicitor draw up the papers.” He returned to his place behind the desk. “We can do it on Monday.”
“Your Grace, I don’t—”
“Tuesday, then.”
“Your Grace, I cannot—”
“Well, I’m afraid my schedule is quite booked for the rest of the week.” He flipped through the pages of an agenda. “Brooding, drinking, indoor badminton tournament . . .”
― Tessa Dare, The Duchess Deal

“I was sitting at the dressing table, brushing out my hair, when a loud, abrupt tattoo was pounded on my door. I smiled at myself in the mirror, and rose from the low stool. My bowl of pot-pourri was to hand: I was ready.
“Who is it?” I called out.
“Dinner is ready,” said Lord Pecus’ voice. It sounded as though he were speaking through clenched teeth. “You have five minutes.”
“I’m not coming down,” I retorted. “Go away!”
“Lady Farrah, if you’re not out of your room in the next few minutes, I’ll fetch you out.”
I winced, but it had to be said. “You wouldn’t dare!”
The puerility of it was embarrassing. Fortunately, Lord Pecus was too annoyed to notice. “Two minutes, Lady Farrah!”
“I absolutely refuse to come out!”
― W.R. Gingell, Masque

“I distinctly saw a tremor of laughter shake him, but he said: “Then I feel no scruple in adding that if you refuse my dinner invitation again, you’ll be carried down, nightdress or no.”
I gave a tiny sigh. “May I ask why?”
“It’s . . . necessary,” he said, after a brief pause. “I’m sorry to insist, but I do insist.”
“Very well,” I said consideringly. “I have a stipulation, however.”
“Which is?”
“You dine with me unmasked.”
There was a short silence, then Lord Pecus took in a slow breath. “Do you know what you’re asking?”
I levelled a steady gaze at him. “I believe so. I may add that I think it only fair in the light of what you are asking, my lord.”
He gave the low, rumbling chuckle that I liked. “I think we will get along very well, Lady Isabella.”
― W.R. Gingell, Masque

“I sighed. “Very well, if that is too difficult, show me all communications the day the Pecus Curse took effect.”
The Book paused, its writing fading in and out uncertainly. At length, a sentence formed.
I don’t think that’s allowed.
“What do you mean, it’s not allowed!”
You’re concerned in breaking the curse, the Book scrawled. It would be considered cheating. This is outside my parameters.
“I am most certainly not concerned in breaking the curse!” I told the book firmly. “It has nothing in the world to do with me. Lord Pecus can look after himself.”
Lord Pecus seems to have chosen you to break it, smugly said the Book. That means you’re not allowed any help. You wouldn’t want to cheat, would you?
“Of course I would!” I said. “What a ridiculous question! I quite often cheat, thank you very much; sometimes it’s the only way to get things done. For example: how may I break a curse if I’m not given any information?”
It’s meant to be hard, inked the Book, sulky again. That’s the way it is. All the True Love curses are like that.
“I utterly refuse to be involved in anything so trite as a True Love Curse! And if you dare to tell me that ‘Lord Pecus seems to have involved me’, I shall begin ripping your pages out!”
― W.R. Gingell, Masque