Ficlets

Lady Marguerite flitted from table to table like some immense, over-dressed butterfly. Her lips tended to conversation, her hands tended to the hem of her skirt, and her mind was locked on de Grave. Fortunately she had long ago learned that idle conversation requires very little by way of thought.

Some things came naturally to her, such as conversation. Lord Gavinson took care of the rest. She stole a glance at her husband, attempting to both catch his attention and turn it subtly toward de Grave. But alas, it was to no avail with the young Miss Torkenson in the adjacent seat, the hussy.

With a quietly indignant clearing of her throat, Lady Marguerite hefted her considerable bosom within her bodice and moved to the next table. Father Yoren brightened on her arrival, to her chagrin. Priest or no he seemed to appreciate her presence.

But she would be robbed of the bit of flattery bound to usher forth from his sermoning lips. Instead she froze in her tracks and gazed the parlor door. She was here.