“Floating.”
“Blooming heck.”
“Oh, and Crispy, you’re also supposed to pretend to be married to her.”
“Oh, Bertie, I say. That’s not on!”
“Wedded bliss, Crispy. Your chance to try it out.”
“I hate you sometimes, Bertie.” Cris said it with love, of course.
“Have fun, old chap.”
Cris paused at the doors to the conservatory. “I do have one artistic inclination... but if you tell anyone outside of the bounds of this operation, Bertie, so help me God!”
Bertie raised one hand. “I swear it.”
So Cris told his oldest friend his second greatest secret.
Dimity bounced only a little when she saw who was waiting for her on the embarkation green. But she did most assuredly bounce – honestly, she couldn’t help it. Sir Crispin was her safety for this mission! Someone was on her side at last! Probably Bertie.
She sent her boss at the War Office a fervent prayer of gratitude. Thank you, Albert Luckinbill. May your cacti be fruitful and multiply.
Dimity’s truest friend in the whole wide world was a bit of a climber. Not socially – actual physical climbing, like up mountainsides. Turn your back on Sophronia for one minute and she was inching over the side of a dirigible or getting up on top of a moving train. But Dimity wasn’t that kind of intelligencer. Oh, she could climb if she must, but it wasn’t her strong suit. Nevertheless, as certain as fire opals were her favorite jewel (and they absolutely were, so colorful!) Dimity Plumleigh-Teignmott wanted to climb Sir Crispin Bontwee.
Firstly, let us be clear, he was a physically pleasing specimen of manhood. Extremely well-proportioned, with excellent musculature, a well-turned leg, and the kind of cheekbones that once would have driven Dimity into fits of poetry. Dimity no longer wrote poetry, for which the world was no doubt grateful. But those cheekbones. Sir Crispin also had nice straight teeth, or she believed he did. He rarely smiled, so it was difficult to know for certain. His mouth was generous and looked like it wanted to smile often – only for some reason he felt the need to keep very good control over it.
Dimity really wanted to make him smile, and tried, a lot. And failed. A lot.
Which happened to be the most attractive thing about Sir Crispin – his excellent control. For example, the man was always moving, always in motion, yet not nervous about it, simply energized. It was as though he was leashed and held tight by his own discipline, like some jungle cat ready to pounce. And Dimity wanted desperately to be the recipient of a good pouncing.
Oh dear, there she went, waxing poetic. That kind of wax would never do.
It was only that Dimity had never wanted a man to pounce on her before, but she wanted it from Sir Crispin. Had done for simply ages. Yet he resisted all her wiles, most valiantly.
Lastly, Sir Crispin numbered the fact that he was a tuppenny knight. Not too high status, not too obscure, but perfectly balanced on the cusp of the nobility. Which meant he was brave and handsome, and ranked exactly as Dimity always wished. Hadn’t she said, well over a decade ago now, to that selfsame truest friend in the whole world, that all she really wanted was to one day marry a tuppenny knight?
And here he was.
Dimity always liked to be a woman of her word. She wanted Sir Crispin settled, preferably in her bed, in her house, in her life. Hers.
And now, well now, they were about to be sequestered, together, for a fortnight, in a vampire hive. Fantastic!
To her profound delight, when he handed over her papers and her identity, Sir Crispin also handed over a wedding ring... they were to be sham married as well!
Dimity couldn’t help it. She grinned at him. “Well, good evening, husband.”
Sir Crispin heaved a great sigh. “Sparkles.”
“This ring is not to my taste.” It was a sad, plain little thing, no real splash to it.
“Next time I’ll insist Bertie provide a much bigger, more elaborate statement. But we are meant to be poor starving artists, remember?”
“How can I distract someone by fiddling with it, when it boasts barely a single paste diamond?”
“What, those earrings aren’t bold enough?” He flicked one gently, teasing.
Dimity was wearing a pair of amethyst, diamond, and silver chandelier earrings, huge and dangly and utterly fake. As a poor artist, she didn’t mind that they looked it a bit too. Except the silver, of course. That was real. The design of each dangle ended in a nice sharp point that could cut flesh if applied properly and with enough force. One should always keep silver around in these days of werewolves.
Dimity swung her head so that they shimmered in the afternoon light. Sir Crispin pretended to shield his eyes in mockery of their brilliance. But his own eyes were shining at her with amusement. Oh, she did so very much like the man.
She glanced over her paperwork while they stood in the queue to board. “Mr and Mrs Christopher Carefull. Charming.”
“No, Carefull.”
She bumped him, happy for his teasing. “And I’m Jonquil again. Only this time the artist identity, and married now. I do like that persona. Well, Mr Carefull, shall we?”
Sir Crispin rolled his eyes. “I’m calling you Mrs Carefull. Or Sparkles, of course.” He bent to scratch the ears of someone’s pampered pup. The dog lolled a tongue at him, and Cris told him in very warm tones how good he was. Dimity thought Sir Crispin was awfully good too.
“And I shall call you husband. It suits you so well.” She fluttered her lashes down at him suggestively. Trying to hide how much she genuinely did like the moniker.
The queue moved forwards and Sir Crispin stood to show their chits to the float conductor, who waved them aboard.
Dimity trotted ahead and up the gangplank, twirling her parasol and waggling her hips to make her cage crinoline sway as much as possible. “Come along... husband.”
He groaned and strode after her. Catching up easily and poking her with his arm. Which she then grasped as if he had offered it quite gallantly.
She gave him a coy glance. “Such a gentleman I’ve married.”
“You’re not going to let this slide, are you?” He was so careful with her, always, even when teasing. Almost shy about it. Dimity had always felt, from the very beginning, that there was something odd about Sir Crispin. She had realized eventually, almost too late, the fact that he was a genuinely good man. And there were so few of those about. She’d almost missed it. Almost missed him.
“You could call me wife, you know.” She wanted to hear it in his voice.
He remained stoic. Such a difficult man. “This way, Mrs Carefull.”
“Don’t mind if I do, husband.”
“Carefull of the step up on to the deck.” He was almost smiling. His expression fell, however, the moment they boarded.
The float up to Nottingham was likely to take the better part of the afternoon. And it turned out that poor Sir Crispin wasn’t a very good floater. Dimity intended to make the most of it. Take every advantage, her teachers used to say. Dimity most certainly would. She would dab his brow and wave the smelling salts and boil water and all manner of wifely caring things that she could think of.