As with most things in life, Lady Maccon preferred the civilized exterior to the dark underbelly (with the exception of pork products, of course.)

Lady Maccon.” “By George, Boots! How the deuce can you possibly tell that there is Lady Maccon?” queried the other top-hated gentleman. “Who else would be standing in the middle of a street on full-moon night with a raging ruddy fire behind her, waving a parasol about?” “Good point, good point.

Someone was trying to kill Lady Alexia Maccon. It was most inconvenient, as she was in a dreadful hurry. Given her previous familiarity with near-death experiences and their comparative frequency with regards to her good self, Alexia should probably have allowed extra time for such a predictable happenstance.

She sifted, sighed, and stared up at the ceiling, trying to think about anything but Lord Maccoon, her current predicament, or Lord Akeldama's safety. Which meant she could do nothing but reflect on the complex plight of her mama's more recent embroidery project. Thins, in itself, was a worse torture than any her captors could devise.

Stop playing verbal games with me, madam, or I shall go out into that ballroom, find your mother, and bring her here

Lord Akeldama sighed. 'You lovebirds, how will I endure such flirtations constantly in my company? How déclassé, Lord Maccon, to love your own wife.

The important question is, what will your wear for a wedding dress, Alexia? You look horrible in white.