by Evie Dunmore
She leaned a little closer. “I do like to try my hand at poetry, too.”
He tutted with mock horror. “I declare I am shocked.”
She giggled, very prettily.
“Will you present some of it tonight during the recital?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, oh no. Perhaps one day. I’d choose the piece I thought of when you entered the reception room with Lady Hampshire’s cat in your arms.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yes. It is about a cat, you see—a kitten, to be precise.” She had leaned in closer still, wrapping him in the warm scent of her rose perfume. There was no way around it. She very much wanted to recite her poem to him.
“A kitten,” he said. “Would you do me the honor and recite it to me?”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she protested duly.
“You don’t know it by heart?”
“I do, it is not long.”
“A short poem—that is rare. I’m afraid I must hear it now.”
“But I could not, not here at the table.”
He shook his head. “You are not half as forward as you led me to believe, are you? How disappointing.”
She bit her bottom lip. “I suppose I must, since you insist,” she said, the color in her cheeks high. She lowered her soft voice to a murmur and began:
“Hark! Who hears the kitten’s cry,
So sweet, so soft, so yearning?
She’s lonely in the black of night,
And those shadows, so concerning!
Her siblings gone, the bed so cold
Where is master, to whom she’s sold?
Oh, it’s such a cruel fate,
To mew and shiver, fear and wait.
But! Here comes young master, after her demand,
His caress doth fear destroy,
Cupped gently in her master’s hand,
The kitty purrs again with joy.”
His gaze was riveted on her upturned face. Her expression was perfectly guileless. Mildly expectant.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is this a figurative or a literal poem?”
Cecily gave a slow blink. “I’m afraid I don’t follow?”
“It is about an actual cat, then, whiskers and all.”
“Well, of course. I adore kittens. I shall happily leave the crafting of metaphorical meanings to the gentlemen. Although I do remember you being fond of my aunt’s cats at Wycliffe Hall, so perhaps you don’t consider them entirely unworthy of a stanza or two.”
“They are worthy.” One wily feline in particular, he thought darkly.
Ceci’s eyes brightened; she was taking his agreement as a compliment. Etiquette, and the proverbial noose around his neck, demanded he give her a real compliment on her accidentally salacious monstrosity of a poem. A non-cynical, non-rakish one. Briefly, he was at a loss.
“It has a good rhythm, your poem,” he finally said.
She looked cautiously delighted. “And is the rhythm important?”
“Some would say the rhythm is everything.”
She tilted her head. “And what would you say?”
That you play a good game of seduce-the-male for a purportedly shy and lovely lamb. Men made of less depraved stuff than him would be feeling tall and wide like Hercules by now, under her ever admiring, maidenly blue gaze.
He looked into her eyes and leaned closer. “I have always supported the idea that it hardly matters what you say, but it matters very much how you say it. So yes, much is to be said for a good, steady rhythm to provide a satisfying experience.”
“Ooh,” she breathed. A hectic flush spread over her face.
He decided she sensed that he was being lewd but failed to understand the specifics.
He picked up his glass, and, drinking, he studied her angelic features and imagined a life where she was his wife. She’d expect regular husbandly things from him: pretty children, being kept in the fashion to which she was accustomed, compliments. She wasn’t delicate, but she looked malleable as butter and was trained to please her husband. She would be more complex than that, secretly, but he’d never really know her thoughts if he did not care to hear them—she would accept it if he pursued his own endeavors elsewhere. It would be conventional, life with Cecily. He would become horrifically bored after a week and make her unhappy. It wasn’t her fault. He was not suited to care for helpless creatures, or even the self-sustaining ones. Even had she been his perfect foil, the fact that Rochester had chosen her made her the last person he’d consider for the position of his wife.
Cecily squirmed in her seat, and he realized he had been staring at her intently.
He emptied his wineglass. The time for Scotch could not come soon enough.
* * *
The ducal banquet was surprisingly good. Claremont’s kitchen served a unique blend of French and rustic cuisine and Lucie hadn’t indulged in such fine food in years: perfectly round, golden pies; choice pieces of tender game and fish; well-seasoned sauces; and a bouquet of colorful vegetables. It was enough of a delight to distract her from what had almost transpired on Montgomery’s stable floor a few hours ago . . . No. No, she would not think of the stable floor—again. Or of the feel of soft hair between her bare fingers or the solid male body against her own.
She stabbed her fork into the pie on her plate. The crust broke with a crunch and a warm, savory fragrance wafted up. Her eyes drifted shut, and the chatter around her faded. When had she forgotten how much she loved to eat?
She took a big, impolite bite. Heaven. Her housekeeper was a marvel, but she wasn’t a cook; but then, she ate mindlessly half the time anyway, her thoughts circling the desk in the drawing room like eager vultures while her body was sitting at the kitchen table.
“The cooks have outdone themselves,” she said to Lord Melvin when she realized that she had been enjoying her pie in greedy silence, leaving her table partner in a lurch.
Melvin had to gulp down his food. “It’s certainly lengths better than the new refreshment service at Westminster,” he said, dabbing at his lips with the napkin. “I wish they would reopen Bellamy’s; the veal was ghastly the other day.”
Lucie gave him a sardonic smile. “I would not know.”
Bellamy’s, the canteen of Westminster, hadn’t admitted women activists while in operation, and she was not entitled to join the male politicians for the in-house refreshments.
Melvin gave an amused shake. “Well, you do seem to be everywhere; it is hard to imagine there are still places in Westminster Palace where Lady Lucinda should not unexpectedly pop up.”
Her brows rose. “Why, it almost sounds as though I were haunting the place, Lord Melvin.”
“Enough people would say so,” he said with equanimity.
This was not going according to plan—her notoriety should not be part of any conversation here at Claremont.
Melvin’s dark intelligent eyes turned speculative. With his beakish nose, it made him look like a magpie contemplating a heist. “Would you do it,” he asked, “take up a seat in Parliament and endure the luncheon food?”
“Of course,” she said without hesitation. “And I will. One day.”
Melvin nodded. “You must work harder on Gladstone, then.”
She frowned at the unsubtle prod. During his recent election campaign, Prime Minister Gladstone had paid enough lip service to the women’s rights movement to raise even her hopes. The suffragist chapters across Britain had thrown whatever support they could muster behind him, had marched and petitioned for him and submitted their policy demands to him in good faith, but during his now three months in office, he hadn’t said a word on the Cause. Business in Westminster coasted along as usual, on the back of empty promises. Soon they would have to harass him, and he would tell them to be patient and wait, as every administration had don
e before him.
She put down her fork and picked up her wineglass. The Sauvignon was lovely and crisp. It still left a sour aftertaste in her mouth.
“Until I have found a way to actually be everywhere at once, I’m presently not in a position to increase my activities on the Gladstone front,” she said.
“Consider delegating tasks rather than thinking of yourself as irreplaceable,” Melvin said. “Delegating is an art form.”
“Such brilliant advice,” she said blandly. “It had not occurred to me.”
He nodded, politely or obliviously. “You see, the curious thing about causes is that they usually continue well without you. The question is whether you can continue well without the cause. Now, have you read Montgomery’s amendment proposal yet?” He chuckled. “But of course you have. What is your opinion?”
Montgomery was currently saying something that had the Prince of Wales nodding and chuckling.
“There were no objections to either wording or content from Millicent Fawcett, nor our legal advisors,” Lucie said. “I do have a few objections.”
“Naturally.”
She shrugged. “But if they were addressed, the amendment would not get past our usual suspects in the House of Lords. The current proposal stands a chance. We could build on it in a next round of amendments.”
“Montgomery knows how to draft his policies,” Melvin said. “He makes them as slick as an oiled eel and before you know it, they have slipped through your grip and passed.”
“Indeed.” She eyed her plate. The vegetables were wilting. And the image of an oiled eel pressing on her mind rather tempered her appetite.
Melvin’s eyes were still on the head of the main table, ever a politician, drawn to power like a moth to the flame. “It’s the influence of the duchess,” he said, his voice low, “Montgomery’s new policies.”
For a moment, they both sat and watched discreetly how Annabelle was making an interested face at some tale the Prince of Wales was telling. The heir to the throne became animated, his right hand threatening to knock over his wineglass as he gestured without taking his eyes off the duchess. And everyone else in the vast hall was seeing it, too. Lucie felt a swell of satisfaction. Cat incident or not, no one could dismiss the approval of the prince, and he was presently stamping it all over Annabelle.
“Astonishing, isn’t it. I can see why my fellow men would object to giving the fair sex more power,” murmured Lord Melvin.
Lucie slowly turned in her chair to face him. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?”
He kept his eyes on the prince. “Her Grace used to be a country woman, wasn’t she?”
Her defenses were rising on Annabelle’s behalf. “She was, yes.”
He nodded. “And yet here she is, influencing a duke and charming the future king. Most men only obtain such a position through birthright, then tireless politicking. Naturally, people wonder why women should need political powers when they already hold so much power simply by being women.”
Her smile was bemused. “I assume you are playing devil’s advocate, Lord Melvin.”
“Assume that I am—how would you declaw someone who argued this?”
“I’d suggest he study the definition of liberty under L in the Oxford Dictionary.”
Melvin raised his brows, as though she were an ill-mannered pupil.
“Truly,” she said. “How many of your hypothetical fellow’s female acquaintances equal the duchess in all her beauty, youth, and wit?”
His brows came down. “A gentleman has nothing but compliments for the appearance and accomplishments of any lady of his acquaintance.”
“Of course,” Lucie said evenly. “And niceties aside, Her Grace possesses a rare combination of attributes that would drive most men to distraction. But is a gentleman’s influence and dignity contingent upon something as fleeting as his natural charms? Must he be outstanding to count? No. He officially has a voice simply because he is a man.”
The corner of Lord Melvin’s mouth tipped up. “Unless he has no property. Then his voice counts for little.”
She had a feeling that he quite liked the devil’s advocate position. “A man’s lack of voice is connected to his lack of property,” she murmured. “A woman’s lack of voice is forever connected to the fact that she is a woman.”
“Indeed.” Approval glinted in Melvin’s eyes, and he raised his glass to her. “I’m well pleased with tonight’s seating order. Always a pleasure to converse with someone who hasn’t yet lost their passion. Too many treat politics as a self-referencing play these days.”
She could see herself in his dark iris, the complicated coronet of blond hair and silk flowers atop her head an unfamiliar sight. Belatedly, she gave a nod.
Lord Melvin was intelligent. He was on her side. Parliament heralded him as the next John Stuart Mill, and she respected and admired him for his work, when she rarely admired much of anything.
Could joy be had from him? Would he make her feel molten and mindless, as she had today when staring into the mocking eyes of a man who had very little to recommend him?
She looked away and looked back at him again. Faint lines bracketed his mouth. She suspected that while he was passionate in his speeches, in private he would display the stiff upper lip of any self-respecting aristocratic male. Likely, he was starchy.
Lord Melvin’s expression turned bemused under her inspection.
She reached for her wineglass.
A lady should never be seen indulging in food and wine, and it would be best if she did not take enjoyment from it at all—pace your bites, Lucinda; you are a lady, not a horse.
The past was nipping at her heels, here in the ducal dining room amid glinting crystal and silver terrines. Another version of herself could be attending this very same event tonight, could be sitting in the same seat: a respected lady, a mother of children, married to someone like Lord Melvin. Not necessarily content; if it was not the state of women’s rights in Britain one took issue with, one could be discontent about the curtains, or a lousy season, or a tyrannical husband. All that separated her from that woman had been a few books and pamphlets, read at the right time . . . or had the diversion begun sooner? Had there always been something in her disposition that had gradually edged her off the beaten path?
She brushed the musings aside. However she had reached this point, the only way now was forward.
* * *
Lord Melvin made himself her escort to the green drawing room, but his attention was on other members of the House of Lords drifting alongside them through the Great Hall.
Ahead of her in the throng was Tristan. And on his arm was Cecily. Her face was in profile, her eyes riveted on her escort as though he had just hung the moon and the stars for her. A memory flashed, of Cecily the girl running after a lankier version of Tristan, her blond braids and the strings of her white pinafore flying behind her. Now her cousin was gliding along on Tristan’s arm with the poise of a swan on a pond, the train of her snowy dress languidly trailing behind, and the sight grated. Why was her mother nowhere in sight to keep an eye on Cecily’s reputation? At least there was Tommy—Thomas—a few steps behind the pair, his back stiff with displeasure.
“Lady Lucinda?” Melvin was looking down at her quizzically.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are you looking forward to the evening program?” he repeated patiently.
“Certainly.”
“I heard Lord Ballentine will gift us with a poem.”
“Riveting,” she said dryly.
“You do not sound charmed,” Melvin observed.
“Oh, I am charmed,” she said quickly. “Excessively charmed.”
The evening would be a terrible bore.
Thankfully, Hattie and Catriona were waiting for her at the entrance to the menagerie. The cavernous green-walled room had been rearran
ged to accommodate a semicircle of four hundred gilded chairs with thick red velvet upholstery. At the center of the circle gleamed a black lacquered Steinway.
She followed Hattie down one of the two aisles that allowed guests access to their seats. Close on her heels was Lord Melvin, when there was really no good reason for him to keep escorting her.
The crown prince sat next to Montgomery in the first row opposite, in a special chair that blocked the view of anyone unfortunate enough to be seated behind him.
Hattie was craning her neck around the room the moment she had arranged her skirts on the chair. “Have you heard?” she murmured. “Lord Ballentine is going to recite a poem.”
“I heard.”
“I hope it is going to be ‘The Ballad of the Shieldmaiden,’” Hattie said, her eyes still searching.
“He is seated right opposite, second row to the left.”
“I wasn’t looking for him,” Hattie lied.
There would be no escape. This would be the sole topic of conversation among the ladies once the men had retreated to the smoking rooms: Ballentine and his poems.
And all the while, his prank in the stables continued to smart, like the prolonged sting of a burn. To add insult to injury, he had apparently become society’s darling the moment he had returned the bloody cat, which she had, quite literally, dropped into his lap.
“That is your cousin, next to him, isn’t it?” Hattie murmured, watching Cecily.
“The very same.”
“Very pretty,” Hattie said, “a Botticelli. The angel kind, not the Venus.”
“I suppose,” Lucie said. She didn’t have an artistic bone in her body. She did, however, notice the look of rapture on her brother’s face while he was watching Cecily, while she was making conversation with Tristan. Interesting.
The program opened with the rapid tune of Mozart’s Alla turca; a young lady had taken her place at the Steinway and let her fingers fly over the keys.
Inevitably, her mind wandered back to the incident in the stable. She would feel less preoccupied had Tristan just been his usual self during the past week. But he had helped her in the park, and she had received a mysterious donation from the fencing club. It must have raised her expectations of him despite herself. At the very least, it had made her wonder about him, and now she knew how good his hair felt, and she would not be able to unfeel it.