An Impossible Impostor (Veronica Speedwell, #7)

by Deanna Raybourn

For that afternoon was the last truly uncomplicated moment of happiness I was to know for a long time.

Stoker, being a male of the species, could not help occasionally erupting into irrationality. I had long observed that when a man does so, it is simplest to treat him with the same calm good humor one might employ when coaxing a stubborn horse or a slightly backwards child.

“For which you can hardly blame Sir Hugo. He did not drown you, nor did he abduct you. He has never shot you, and I am the only person who has stabbed you. It is illogical in the extreme to blame poor Sir Hugo for any of those inconveniences.”

“Lower your voice, my love. You are alarming the dogs.” I nodded

“The trouble is that after six years, Jonathan Hathaway has come home.”

Stoker’s overly detailed explanation of the uniqueness of the scrotal sac in the male of the species.

It was astonishing, I mused, how often people claimed to be honest when they were simply making a virtue of excessive rudeness.

“The male must always be vigilant that he has shown himself at his best lest a rival secure a place in her affections.”

“Hello, wife.”

“But unlike other Antipodean marsupials, the male has a pouch into which it can withdraw the scrotal sac for defensive purposes during an attack. It is an extraordinary specimen. It ought to have been mounted to display the full range of its bite.”

“I recall that day,” he said softly. “It was the day I decided to ask you to marry me.”

“When you have reached my advanced years, Mary dear, I do hope you will have acquired a little wisdom to compensate for the loss of your good looks.”

“No. It will not do. This has been too weighty a burden upon my conscience. I will carry it no longer.”

“Exactly so,” Stoker replied. “And I’ve no doubt she grieved for you. But you, sir,

are her past. I am her present and future. Your arrival here does not threaten that.”