As I said, you have mistaken me for another. London is full of drab little peahens, sir. Now, then, I’m leaving,” she said in a huff.

“To change?” he asked, unable to stop from goading her.

“To write a poem for my toast,” she snapped. “And you may suffer, for I will not help you with yours.”

“No need, darling,” Matthew drawled, his words intending to push her away.
“I doubt you know a suitable word that will rhyme with fuck. ”

“Stuck,” she said, turning to face him. “For two days, my lord. We are stuck with one another. Let us make the best of it.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“By giving each other wide berth. We will not stand together, we will not talk to one another and we will most certainly not look at one another.”

“No problem from this quarter.”

“Good. You may be assured that it will be no difficulty for me, either.”

-Matthew and Jane

Charlotte Featherstone