As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. What could she do? Reluctantly, at a second curt command, she began to step across the uncarpeted floor, her eyes never leaving the threatening pistol. ‘This is the way you tell me that you love me? You English idiot, you!’ He seized her wrists to hold her off, actually daring to laugh, much to Melusine’s increased fury. “What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely.
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