For our fourth Pinkorama, Terrie brings us… The Passion of the Purple Peepmaria Or My Life As a Lizard, by Miss Gwendolyn Meadows.
It’s spring of 1805. After a close encounter with the Naughty Hellfire Club in the Roman ruins beneath Bath, Miss Gwendolyn Meadows and Colonel Reid share a heated moment in a theatre storeroom.
Note the Colonel’s all-over tan from all those years of soldiering in India.
Terrie writes: “No offense to the beautiful Gwen being portrayed as a Florida lizard….”
To be fair, the situation could make anyone feel a bit prickly. Er, scaly?
Thank you, Terrie, for showing us Miss Gwen in a whole new way! And for your expert lizard wrangling. (Can’t you just see Miss Gwen adopting a pet lizard?)
And now here’s a bit of the scene:
William came to his senses, if sense it could be called, sprawled on the floor of a storage room at the back of the Theater Royal.
He rolled onto his back, blinking for a moment at the ceiling, as the remnants of what used to be his mind tried and failed to pull together what exactly had just happened. He hadn’t felt so dazed since he’d wound up on the wrong side of a rocket fusillade. His horse had bolted with him, shying and rearing in the midst of the flashing lights, the colors bursting all around him.
Compared to this, that had been bland.
A box scraped against the floor as Gwen braced herself against it, hoisting herself to her feet. Her dress was off her shoulders, her hair tumbling down her back. Her headdress had got lost somewhere; her petticoat straggled down below her hem. She looked wonderful.
William could have gone on lying there on the floor indefinitely—it was surprisingly comfortable for a floor—but since his position put him rather at a disadvantage, he hauled himself up to a sitting position.
Gwen was pacing around the room, searching for a lost slipper. He didn’t remember removing her slippers, but they must have been kicked off somewhere along the way. He did remember her stockings, the luxurious silk of them, and the even softer bare skin above.
“Ha!” said Gwen, and pounced on the slipper, jamming her foot into it with an air of triumph.
Shouldn’t there be—well, some cuddling? Some post coital discussion? Come back to the floor didn’t have quite the same ring as come back to bed.
On the floor… and on that crate… and against that piece of scenery propped against the wall….
To be fair, it was a matter of dispute as to who had been ravishing whom, but William couldn’t help but feel as though some sort of grand gesture or reparations were called for. He just couldn’t figure out what. He’d little experience with affairs of any sort, much less the sort that resulted in lying on the floor of a theater storeroom in a confused mess of scattered clothing. He had no idea what the protocol might be.
He spotted Gwen’s other slipper lying on the floor and leaned over to snag it. “Here,” he said, offering it up to her. “It’s not made of glass, but it will fit you just the same.”
A glass slipper? Or, possibly, a porcelain gown? Only the lizard knows for sure….