Georgette Heyer should be mandatory reading for boyfriends
“Oh, I am monstrous flattered, sir!” Cleone spread out her fan and held it before her face.
“Not flattered, Mistress Cleone; justly appreciated.”
“La!” said Madam Charteris. “How can you say such things, Mr Bancroft? I declare you will make my daughter vain!”
“Vanity, madam, mates not with such beauty as that of your daughter,” he retaliated. To the right he could see Philip, glowering, and his mischievous soul laughed. Then Sir Maurice claimed his attention, and he turned away.
Philip walked to the couch and stood behind it, resting his arm on the back. He leaned over Cleone with an air of possession.
“Pranked out mummer!” he muttered in her ear.
Cleone smiled up at him.
“Why, sir, are you at variance with him in the matter of my looks?” she asked, and thereby bereft him of speech. Her smile turned to a look of reproach. “’Tis your cue, sir; am I to be slighted?”
A dull red crept to the roots of Philip’s hair. He spoke lower still.
“You know-what I think of you, Cleone. I cannot-mouth what I feel-in pretty phrases.”
A strangely tender light came into her eyes.
“You might try, Philip,” she said.
“What, here? Not I! I am not one to sing your charms in public.” He laughed shortly. “So that is what you desire?”
The tender light died.
“No, sir. I desire you will not lean so close. You inconvenience me.”