@miss-moreno
“Hampstead is the place to ruralize, ri-ti-turalize, extramuralize. Hampstead is the place to--”
The seaman stumbled in his dance. Everyone else laughed.
It was a long time since he’d seen that. Joy. Their eyes glistened and they continued their croaky little song, throwing their arms over each other’s shoulders and half-spilling, half-drinking their mutfruit wine, their faces cherry red and hot with alcohol. But they were all cheering. Dancing in the open barn. A man twirled his partner into his arms and she beamed, squealing.
‘You make me feel so young,’ a song crooned around them. ‘Bells to be rung and a wonderful fling to be flung...’ Ainsworth stood by the drinks, warm in his cloak and feathered hat, when he spotted someone familiar drifting by.
Kay.
“Perhaps I might of assistance? Lady Joan?” he asked, half-amused.
If she turned, she’d see him, then: Ainsworth, his smile more in his eyes than on his lips. He quirked a brow at her outfit and the rest of the smile slowly found his face. “It would seem that I haven’t come... overly prepared.”
