Daniel Friedman - Riot Most Uncouth

“But surely you desire a legacy. Who will look after all you’ve built, when you’re gone?”

She shrugged indifferently. “I’ve a handful of nieces and nephews, and some cousins. When the time comes, I may divide it among them, or bequeath it all to the worthiest. Or I might birth a bastard. No law exists anymore that would prevent such a child from inheriting. The world is changing, Lord Byron. Thirty years ago, a lady could not have survived on her own, but men have lately become quite superfluous.”

What I was thinking was that, if she no longer sought a prudent husband, she no longer had any reason to guard her chastity. “We remain necessary in at least one respect,” I said, and I rose from my seat and moved toward her.

“You’d be quite surprised,” she said. “There are techniques. And devices.”

“I’ll wager a thousand pounds that my techniques are better than your techniques.”

“You haven’t got a thousand pounds, Lord Byron.”

But when I reached out to touch her face, she let me. “I rather doubt you’re entirely satisfied by your solitary life,” I said, brushing my fingers through her hair.

She smiled. “Are you offering to fix what’s wrong with me?”

“I wouldn’t want to leave again, without giving you a proper good-bye.”

“Very well,” she said. “I’ve no other plans for the next ten minutes.”

She stood with a smooth motion, and I drew my hand back. The steward held the glass door open as she walked back into her house. Her stride was long and supple and imperious.

I finished my drink, and then I followed her.