Jillian Chantal

This week, the authors of Tuesday Tales are writing to a picture prompt. Each post is limited to 300 words.  I’s still working on my Regency Christmas story.

Be sure to check out the other tales here. 

When he was on the street after the awkward meeting with Cavanaugh and his wife, Charles waved off his driver and carriage. He needed to walk. Even though it was cold, he wiped perspiration from his brow. The ballroom had been warm with all the bodies and the fires in the hearths, but his sweat came from the encounter.

They’d been polite enough but he knew she was fighting the urge to either slap his face or kick him in the shins. He didn’t exactly bolt away, but he didn’t linger either.  Just enough to not cause gossip. They’d merely exchanged pleasantries and he bowed to them and made good his escape.

Now outdoors, he strode along the dark street, unafraid. He was, after all, a former Army officer and could defend himself. Not that any cutthroats ever milled around this neighborhood of fine Georgian houses.

The farther away from the ball he got, the easier his breath came. He hadn’t realized he was holding in so much nervousness. It felt good to let it go. He took several big gulps of the winter air. It stung a bit going down, but he needed to cleanse away the angst of seeing the Cavanaughs.

Charles walked on, spying a set of benches he and his love used to sit on before the last time he went to the continent. His steps faltered and tears pooled in his eyes. He shoved them away brusquely with the sleeve of his coat. He couldn’t get sentimental. Lord knew he’d mourned more than most. He wanted to move on with his life but couldn’t seem to get past his loss.

Steps behind him pulled him from his reverie. Am I to meet my fate by cutthroat after all?