Sweet Swindle

Chapter I: Dictum factum

But he, that dares not grasp the thorn
Should never crave the rose.

Anne Brontë

As Gideon moved the quilt, freshly dipped into ink, toward the piece of parchment before him, a sturdy noise refrained him from doing so. The second tap on the door of his drawing room was ever so light, almost as if one had used the tip of a feather, too terrified to use one's hands.

He didn't reply, so a third tap rushed in quickly after the previous one. Gideon sighed. With a voice that spoke of slight irritation, he allowed the intruder to come in.

"In."

It was probably one of the footmen, on the verge of spouting a tale of nonsense on how another missing one added the group of missing sheep. Nothing of sufficient value to cease him from writing his damned letter.

Without even looking up from his desk, too uninterested, he spoke again. "What is it with you lot? You always seem to have a despicable notion of when to barge in. If it's about cattle, I won't have any of it."

Silence.

"Good day to you, milord. I am here for the position of your future secretary."

His head shot op at the womanly sound of the voice. Se-cre-ta-ry? A woman?

Barely a slip of a woman. Fiery locks concealed her visage which was abundant of freckles and warm-colored eyes. Then his gaze flew to the lower part of her countenance. Her lips. Plump and rose-colored. The most womanly part of her. She was tall, but he didn't mind that. Tall and thin, though healthy-looking. Her demeanor spoke of uncertainty and bashfulness. Of course.

'"You are? I received news you were to arrive three days later."

His response seemed to have an immediate discouraging effect on her. He preferred not to behold such glum expressions, even if only for the slightest of moments. Often, he deemed himself hopeless in cases that would require consolation. "Well," he began, "I suppose there is no point in rescheduling again."

She remained there, hovering like a guileless maiden, waiting for his acknowledgment perhaps?

"Sit down."

Angelique seated herself in the seat across a second desk, anticipating, as she contemplated her actions. Was it too late to go back now? Perhaps if she confessed now that she had accidentally pretended to be someone else, he would dismiss her, and she could return unscathed? No, that was foolish. Why on earth exactly had she pretended to be another woman? A Miss A. Fairchild? The only luck she had that could possibly be of help in her confession, was the resemblance of the first letter of their Christian names. But what was the name of the woman who had actually applied for the position of secretary?

Annabelle? Perhaps Amadie or Anne-Marie? Or maybe even Amber? It could be any of those or a thousand more.

Angelique bit her lip in indecisiveness. She realized he had questioned her when he cleared his throat in his impatience. Loudly. She feared he would eat her alive if she remained silent for three more seconds, so she responded.

"Pardon me, milord. I hadn't quite grasped your question."

He chuckled briefly but adjusted his face to its usual stern and solemn expression.

"If I remember correctly, I just asked for your name."

At his comment, she could feel heat flushing toward her cheeks, knowing that they must share the same color as her hair which would likely make for an absurd sight.