This is a sequel to A Query for a Man of Refinement

At long last, Nigel drove the towncar to a stop in front of Lady Angeline's manor. Wanting to spend as little time in the cold as possible, Quincy J. Applethorpe, III, Esquire, dashed through the door, running stiffly and awkwardly, but still projecting an impression of poise and grace to the statuary that flanked the walkway.

Nigel, always precisely as quick as the needs of his master, had already positioned himself in front of Quincy's door. Flashing faithful Nigel a warm smile and a chocolate truffle he had procured for his most faithful manservant, Quincy ducked into the back seat. "Thank you, Master Quincy," nodded Nigel, his black cap getting damper.

As Nigel drove the young gentleman home, Quincy found dwelling on the words of the raucous youth he had strangely encountered in Lady Angeline's vestibule. Leaning back in his leather seat, he began to conjure up the images of his past lady loves, taking a mental inventory of the women with whom he had romanced or shared a bed.

Guinevere, his first real girlfriend and favorite playdate as a child, had always possessed her beautiful blonde locks. The names of nearly all his other childhood friends and acquaintances had long since faded into anonymity, though he retained a dim recollection of turning down the invitation of a certain raven-haired girl with impossibly rosy cheeks to a formal ball.

Louisa, his most recent interest, had been a friend of his family's for years, their fathers being longtime business partners. But it was only this Autumn, when she had bleached and dyed her long red hair, that he had felt compelled to whisk her away for a weekend in Vienna. This spontaneous trip had initiated the most ferociously passionate relationship of Quincy's life.

Among other more fleeting romances, his mind wandered back to Abigail, the maid who had been responsible for maintaining the carpets in the West wing of his grandfather's country estate in his seventeenth year. He had been summering there in preparation for his first semester at Harvard. One afternoon, she discovered him exploring herself, when she removed her bonnet, let loose a yellow fountain of hair, and introduced Quincy to a new world.

Pulling himself out of his nostalgic reverie, the remembered scents of perfumed necks and intimate sweat dissipating, Quincy could not ignore the one trait they all shared. Though he was sure he was not so shallow as to be exclusively attracted to any such superficial feature of the well-bred women in his past, it was true that he had never expressed anything more than a polite interest in any woman without blonde hair. When his polo mates would set him up on a blind date, he never agreed until the color of her hair had been divulged. Curious, he thought to himself, I don't seem to get particularly excited by just the thought of blonde hair.

Attempting to convince himself of his impartiality, Quincy pictured Lady Angeline, who was two years his junior. He imagined her wearing the black dress she wore while hosting this very evening, then mentally removed six inches from its hemline. Certainly, she had a comely smile and a magnificent body. In his mind, she was collapsed on her couch, her auburn curls splashed behind her head on a pillow. He tried to picture her naked.

Nothing. The exercise provided him with nothing.

The window behind his head caught flakes of snow and melted them instantaneously. Perhaps gentlemen did prefer blondes, he thought.

Labels: short stories