The Romantic Englishwoman Novels & Stories

Her features are delicate and innocent. “Do you understand English?” she asks. Olga is half-Russian, half-American. Born and bred. This woman has a full English accent. Fuck. “What’s your name?” I ask, praying to all that’s holy I didn’t grab the wrong girl. “Oh, thank God you speak English,” she lets out a relieved chuckle. “I’m Anya de Luna. Are you Olga’s guards?” She glances out the windows, then nervously brings her eyes back to me.

My conscience kicked in. “Hey…” A lady in tattered clothes like mine walked up to me, crouching in front of me as she held a bread. I stared back at it, and she suddenly threw it on the floor. “You speak English?” she asked, her accent more like Diana’s when she speaks English. Even in rags, she looked very beautiful, her skin milk-white through the dirt that covered it. Her long black hair was rough, and her blue eyes were as clear as crystal.

The entire room fell into silence when I stepped inside, causing my foot to decline to a stop. I smiled brightly. “Hello, everyone.” No response. Great. Just when I was debating if I should leave or not, the old woman suddenly stood up from her chair and walked to me. She was more pretty than I remembered, wearing a pretty red floral dress and matching shoes. She was the one Theodore had talked about the most. Elizabeth Victoria Knight.

Despite that, the bedding smelled fresh, and there were new reeds on the floor. As he laid her down and stepped back, a gasp escaped him. The plaid she had worn wrapped around her more like a blanket than an arasaid fell open, revealing an English dress beneath it. It was clear the girl wasn’t a Maclaren, and he had brought an Englishwoman into his keep, and into his mother’s room. A surge of rage filled him, and he shouted as his dragon roared to the surface, wanting to rend the Englishwoman on the bed even as another part of him wanted to keep her from harm. At his roar of anger, her eyes snapped open, and she started to tremble. “Please do not kill me,” she said, proving she was certainly

She tried to be dainty, but she reached for more, suddenly feeling ravenous from her activities with Renz. "You might slow down, there. You wouldn't want to burst out of that lovely gown," a smooth female voice sweetly said. Lena looked up at the speaker and quickly swallowed the strawberries she'd stuffed into her mouth. She stood up on shaky legs, slightly wincing as her sore flesh stretched. The woman was highly styled and dignified, with deep scarlet hair and a complex web of glittering diamonds surrounding her entire throat. She looked somewhat familiar, and Lena wondered if she was a royal of some sort.

I pointed her out to Amy. I had noticed her before, it was hard to miss a woman of such beauty. She had long black curly hair that hung halfway down her back, skin a light cream color that spoke of non white ancestry. A great body, and full sensuous lips. Oddly she was with a group of women. I couldn't see a man alive not wanting to claim her. Ladies night out, I guess. She stood, looked right at me, and smiled brightly. "Fake an orgasm," she said in an upper crust British accent. The crowd roared in laughter, as the air drained out of my accordion.

Could it be Lysander? I went to open the door only to see a young woman standing there. She looked like she was in her early thirties. She had neatly tied auburn hair and a calm expression on her face. "Good day, Miss, I'm here to let you know that lunch is ready. " Her voice was gentle and melodic, laced with that refined British tone that seemed to echo through this house. She was wearing a maid's outfit and she was quite good looking. Her manners were graceful yet formal. For a fleeting second, I wondered if...just like Mr. Wilson...she'd been trained in one of those old European households where etiquette was law. Even her smile was practiced, delicate and distant.

She gulped, feeling her nervousness shot up over the roof, “What is it?” “Prepare yourself. Your lover, he would get hurt really soon,” the woman looked down where her eyelashes casted a shadow on her blue eyes. “Not in Essex but here, in Agios.” Rose was startled by how the woman knew she had came from Essex. She was certain she hadn’t told the woman she came from Essex yet somehow she could tell of it. As the woman left, the near bystander sighed, “Look at that woman. So pretty yet so sorrowful.”

Yes, someone kidnapped her, but who drugged her? That brought up another question: where was she anyway? For the time being, there was no way to know. A door creaked from somewhere across the void, and she sat up a little straighter. “I see you’re awake,” a woman’s voice mumbled. Her accent was distinctly English, refined, possibly raised by a distinguished class that had always planned tea time every day of their lives. Catherine didn’t answer. Her only acknowledgment was an intense scowl the woman could not yet see.

Everyone looked toward that woman. River thought the woman’s voice sounded familiar, so he turned around. He saw Rosalie Lafayette walking over angrily. River frowned. ‘What’s that woman doing here? Who is she calling her husband? Isn’t she unmarried?’ Rosalie was almost thirty years old, yet she did not even have a boyfriend. No man wanted her because she was bossy and a workaholic. Despite her being twenty-nine, she did not have a single pursuer. So what if she was pretty?