I’ve been writing a Regency era fantasy romance and that means reading a lot of Regency romance (oh, the hardship!) and immersing myself in Georgette Heyer’s slap-up-to-the-echo dialogue. So much so, when it came time to write a nifty 500 words for the AWC’s June Furious Fiction challenge I opened my brain and a whole lot of Regency nonsense fell out.
The challenge* was to include a button, to start a sentence with “The air was thick with” and to set the story at a party.
So, here’s my bit of Regency fun, which I called Heyer Nonny Nonny:
“Well, I say he’s a curst rum touch!”
Thomas Bellesley glared at his friends. Chuvham blinked owlishly back at him, too much of a slow-top to readily share his disgust. Freddy Fullarton started to speak but Tom went on, with all the indignation his rather slight nineteen-year-old frame could summon.
“Dashed loose in the haft and he’s no business talking to my sister.”
“You above par, Bells?” Freddy laid down his cards with the careful precision of a man who was, himself, a trifle bosky. “Take leave to tell you, it ain’t the thing. Devilish bad ton.”
“That’s what I’m saying. I ain’t one of your high sticklers, but I know my duty when a loose fish like Smale singles Sally out for his havey-cavey gallantries.”
“By Jupiter, don’t talk fustian,” Freddy said. “She’s no schoolroom chit and Smale’s an out-and-outer, a regular Dash! Why do you think he’s here, at your aunt’s little card party, if it ain’t –”
“Dashed smoky is right, Freddy! He’s a sad rip and Sally oughtn’t –”
“Gammon!” The air was thick with bright songbird chatter which Freddy’s condemnation undercut, like the croaking of a crow. “Ain’t the thing to talk about your sister in that way. Anyone would think you were three parts disguised or –”
He paused, mouth gaping like a startled fish.
“Cork-brained,” Chuvham finished for him.
Tom rounded on Chuvham. “Just because you wouldn’t care two pins if a rakehell like Smale–”
“Bells!” Freddy said, urgently.
“A rakehell,” Thomas insisted, “like –”
“M-my Lord Smale,” Freddy stuttered, addressing himself over his friend’s left shoulder.
Tom turned as far as his high shirt-points would allow. Smale, slap up to the echo in a swallow-tailed coat, fawn inexpressibles and an exquisitely tied cravat, gave them a mocking little bow.
“Gentlemen. I trust I am not interrupting?” He raised his quizzing glass and settled his sardonic gaze on Tom. “Bellesley we must, we positively must, have a quiet word.”
Tom lurched to his feet and said, “I am happy to meet you at the time and place of your choosing, sir. Mr Fullarton here will act as my second.”
“The devil I will!” Freddy cried. “You’ve shot the cat, Bells.”
“Badly foxed,” Chuvham agreed.
“Must you make a cake of yourself, Tom?” Miss Bellesley stepped around Smale and laid her gloved hand on his arm. She was in quite her best looks, wearing a round gown of sprigged muslin and their mother’s pearls. “You can’t arrange an affair of honour with Smale when I’ve agreed to marry him.”
“M-marry?” Tom stared, thunderstruck. “You’re gammoning me! His – his reputation!”
“I don’t care a button for any of that,” Sally said. She smiled up at her beau. “Of course men were deceivers ever.”
“Ah, sigh no more, lady.” Smale’s lips twitched but he went on, gravely, “You shall be blithe and bonny.”
“Yes, I rather think I shall.” Sally gave an irrepressible chuckle.
“Queer in your attic,” Tom said, “the pair of you!”
*Check in to the Australian Writers’ Centre Furious Fiction page at 5pm on the first Friday of the month for the next challenge – 500 words, 500 dollars, 55 hours. It’s a lot of fun.