Cygnet

by Hiatt, Brenda

  "Pray forgive me if I tread on your feet, Miss Wheaton," said the Marquis as he swept her into the dance. "It has been some time since I last danced."

  Deirdre was startled into a genuine smile at his remark, so in tune with her own feelings.

  Wrotham was dazzled by the sweetness of that smile. Was it his imagination, or was this girl something special? Not that he could possibly know that after less than five minutes in her company, he chided himself quickly. It was certainly no part of his plan to fall head over ears for the first schoolroom miss he danced with.

  "Is this your first visit to London?" he asked after a moment, hoping to see that smile again and perhaps to learn something about this enchanting creature beyond her family connections.

  "Yes, it is," replied Miss Wheaton, her low-pitched voice charming him again. "Have you spent many Seasons here, my lord?"

  They spoke on such impersonal topics until the dance ended. By the time Lord Wrotham returned her to Lady Penrose, he was most favourably impressed, though he still knew little about Miss Wheaton beyond her looks and pleasant voice. To his surprise, he heard himself asking permission to call upon her the next day.

  "Why, certainly you may, my lord!" exclaimed Lady Penrose before her daughter could answer. "We shall look forward to your visit."

  Wrotham bowed and turned away, reflecting that the mother would be a definite thorn to deal with, were he to pursue this particular rose. He snorted to himself at his use of such a poetic metaphor. Having an intense respect and admiration for the great poets, he had an equally intense dislike for upstarts who pretended to compose verse. He was not about to become one of them at the sight of a pretty face.

  "You look thoughtful, Ed," commented Ellerby, returning from the floor at that moment, whither he had partnered Lady Thumble for the waltz. "Does that bode ill or fair?"

  The Marquis forced a disinterested smile. "For whom?" he asked rhetorically. Before his friend could answer, he changed the subject. "Did you find Lady Thumble all that you remembered?"

  "And more," replied Charles with a sigh. "She's the one woman who might have persuaded me out of bachelorhood, I believe. But when she was out three years ago I hadn't yet succeeded to m'title, and didn't have the presumption to pursue her as mere Mr. Trent. Timing is everything, Ed, everything." He spoke with unwonted seriousness, making Wrotham regard his usually happy-go-lucky friend with some concern.

  "Not trying to brew something behind old Thumble's back, are you, Charles?" he asked cautiously. That could prove awkward for his own case.

  "Behind— good lord, no, Ed! How can you say so? She's as cheerful and friendly as ever, I'll grant you, but gave no hint she'd be interested in so much as a flirtation. How prospers your search?" Charles seemed anxious to drop what was apparently a painful subject.

  "Slowly," replied Wrotham with a smile, hoping to lighten his friend's mood. "If I'm to have a field to choose from, you'll need to introduce me about a bit quicker."

  Lord Ellerby proceeded to introduce him to more young hopefuls than Wrotham could possibly remember, though he made a point to dance with one or two who seemed less affected or more attractive than the others. As face after lovely face passed before him, however, his mind's eye kept returning to that of his first acquaintance of the evening.

  To divert his thoughts from Miss Wheaton, he began to consider what Ellerby had said earlier. If it were true that Lady Thumble was the type of woman he desired, Charles must definitely meet the other Wheaton girl— what was her name? Celine? Something like that.

  Unfortunately, that young lady was already engaged for every dance, and so constantly surrounded by gentlemen that rudeness would have been necessary to get near her. In addition, Ellerby seemed to be deliberately keeping a discreet distance from Lady Thumble since their earlier conversation.

  No doubt there would be other opportunities, however. It was only the start of the Season, after all.

  * * *

  Sir Malcolm, at least, was not making a fool of himself over Deirdre, Celeste was pleased to note as he led her out for the second time that evening. Not only was he the handsomest of her suitors, he flattered and flirted most outrageously, especially when Lady Penrose was not in evidence, which she found strangely exciting. He was ever so much more interesting than prosy Lord Linley, she thought.

  Celeste was genuinely happy at her sister's sudden success, even if the defection of some half dozen of her admirers was somewhat disappointing. She rightly credited it to their fickleness, however, and not to any intent on Deirdre's part; she knew her sister too well to believe her capable of any sort of underhandedness.

  "A penny for your thoughts, sweet lady," murmured Sir Malcolm, recapturing her attention.

  "I was just thinking about Didi," replied Celeste artlessly. "The change in her is so striking!"

  "She cannot hold a candle to you, my sweet," Sir Malcolm assured her, holding her more closely than was strictly necessary, even for the waltz. "You possess ten times her charm for me." He rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand, sending a tingle up her spine.

  Lady Penrose, watching from the edge of the floor, frowned. She would have to speak to Celeste about so encouraging one of the least eligible of her admirers.

  Deirdre, meanwhile, was enjoying the evening much more than she had expected to. Once the nervousness of that first waltz with Lord Wrotham was out of the way, she was able to relax and take pleasure in the rest of the evening. It was a heady experience to find herself nearly as sought-after as Celeste, and she would not have been female had she not enjoyed it. True, none of the other gentlemen who danced and flirted with her affected her pulse in the same way as Lord Wrotham, but they were all very pleasant, none the less.

  "It is as I told you, Didi," commented Beata at one point when they were both enjoying much-needed glasses of lemonade. "You are not the ugly duckling at all. You were simply a cygnet waiting for the right moment to become a swan."

  "Along with a bit of help from a certain dear sister," added Deirdre with a fond smile for Beata. "I confess, I never really believed you until tonight."

  "Will you be trading in your pens and verses for the whirl of Society now that you have seen what it is like?" asked Beata with interest.

  Deirdre blinked in surprise. She had not thought of her poetry at all during the past few hours. "Can I not do both, become something even more out of the ordinary?" she asked only half-teasingly. Give up her poetry? Never!

  "The Rhyming Reigning Belle, eh?" asked Beata. "That would be original."

  "I like to think that what I write goes a bit beyond simple rhyming," returned Deirdre with a frown, not quite ready to have her poetry made so light of. "Perhaps I will keep it to myself for the present, after all."

  That conversation lingered in Deirdre's mind for the remainder of the evening, however. Suppose the Marquis of Wrotham was not even literary, or wrote dreadful stuff, such as what Mr. Flinder had given her to read? Suppose he had never even heard of Milton or Spenser? Would she still wish to capture his heart?

  Looking towards the door, where Lord Wrotham was taking his leave at that moment, she saw him turn in her direction, and their glances met for a brief instant. Deirdre's pulse began to race again, all but driving those pressing questions from her head. She would simply have to find out what his likes and dislikes were, and the extent of his education, at the next opportunity, she decided. There would be time enough then to call off her plan— wouldn't there?

  * * *

  Back at Penrose House the next morning, the bouquets delivered were not exclusively for Celeste, though her admirers still predominated. Deirdre received offerings from Mr. Barclay and Lord Linley, among others, though those diplomatic gentlemen did not forget Celeste in the throes of their new admiration for her sister.

  Lady Penrose was sincerely delighted with the miracle Beata had wrought with their ugly duckling, though she was careful not to phrase her pleasure so. To think that Lord Wrotham had actually asked to
call upon her! In truth, she could not understand why he should be so taken with Didi while barely glancing at Celeste, but she would be the last one to question the workings of Fate, especially when it worked in her favour. If he could be brought to make an offer for Didi, it would be far, far more than she had ever dared to hope for.

  "Mama, may we ride, or perhaps walk, in the Park this afternoon?" asked Deirdre over breakfast. "We are 'out' now, are we not?" She was trying to focus on anything other than Lord Wrotham's impending visit, which had her in a quake, though she was not certain why. Besides, she really did want to go walking. Used to outdoor freedom all her life, she found that being penned indoors for two entire weeks was beginning to wear on her nerves. No doubt that was the true cause of her fidgets, she decided.

  "I don't see why not, Didi," answered Lady Penrose. "I can arrange for a pair of ladies' riding horses to be sent round on approval for you and Celeste tomorrow, and today, if the weather remains fine, we can drive out in the open barouche."

  "Oh, Mama, Sir Malcolm is taking me driving today. Had you forgotten?" interposed Celeste, drawing a frown from her mother.

  "I shall thank you not to agree to any more outings without my approval, Celeste," said the Baroness severely. "Nor is it wise to give Sir Malcolm such encouragement."

  "Why, what is wrong with Sir Malcolm?" asked Celeste in surprise. "You never objected to his calling here."

  "Nothing is precisely wrong with him. It is simply that you can do better. It is common knowledge that Sir Malcolm's pockets are frequently to let, besides which he has quite a reputation as a flirt. You would not wish people to think you fast."

  "Of... of course not, Mama," replied Celeste, appearing somewhat deflated. "Though I must say I have not seen him flirting with ... with anyone else. May I still go driving with him this afternoon?"

  "Since you have already engaged to do so, I suppose you must. But do try to give equal attention to some of your more eligible suitors, Celeste. Remember, your dowry is not overlarge." Lady Penrose forebore saying more on the subject; more than one young lady had been known to develop a tendre for a man simply because her parents did not care for him.

  Deirdre was only half attending to their conversation. Instead, she was mentally rehearsing the questions she meant to work into her conversation with Lord Wrotham that morning. She hoped she would be able to remember them when faced with his actual presence.

  * * *

  "What drivel!" exclaimed Wrotham, throwing down the latest copy of the Examiner. Lord Ellerby, who was breakfasting with him that morning, looked up questioningly.

  "Something wrong, Ed?" he asked mildly.

  Wrotham snorted. "If Hunt is going to undertake to print poetry, the least he can do is cull out the chaff! I will admit he occasionally finds a gem from an unknown, but more often than not, it seems, what he passes off as poetry is no more than the moonings of a lovesick schoolboy. He must have owed this Mr. Glennis a favour."

  "Glennis?" echoed Charles absently, finishing the last of his kidneys. "Some connection of his wife's, I believe."

  "That explains it then." Even when he was not attending, and Wrotham knew that poetry never held Ellerby's interest, Charles was able to reel off the exact relationship of everyone in London to everyone else. In that capacity, if in no other, his memory for detail was astonishing, Wrotham had to admit. It was such unexpected flashes of intelligence which endeared him to the more scholarly Marquis. He himself often had trouble remembering the name of whatever person he was speaking to.

  "Shall we be off?" Wrotham asked, standing.

  "Whatever you say, Ed. Still can't see why I have to tag along, though. I ain't the one looking to hang up the ladle."

  "I need you to give me courage, Charles," replied Wrotham lightly, earning a snort of disbelief from his friend. He had decided against telling Ellerby about the resemblance of the elder Miss Wheaton to Lady Thumble for fear he would set his hopes too high. He was bringing him along to meet the girl, but that was as far as his match-making attempts would go.

  * * *

  When Lord Wrotham and Lord Ellerby entered the main drawing-room of Penrose House, it was to discover some half-dozen callers ahead of them. Glancing over to where Deirdre sat conversing with Mr. Barclay and Lord Naseby, he found that she looked even lovelier, if possible, than she had looked last night, with her hair piled loosely on top of her head and gowned in cerulean blue. Before availing himself of a seat near her, however, he and Charles paid their respects to their hostess.

  "Lady Penrose, I trust you will forgive my descending upon you without warning," said Lord Ellerby with a charming smile. "I am a great admirer of Lady Thumble and wished to meet her lovely mother and sisters."

  The Baroness, not yet old enough to be immune to flattery, dimpled at his words. "I remember you of course, my lord. I recollect you were a Mr. Trent when last I was in London."

  "Yes, my uncle, the third Earl, was still living then," replied Ellerby. "I am gratified that you should recall so much about me."

  Judging by her speculative expression, Lady Penrose had quickly searched her memory and concluded that if Lord Ellerby had inherited his uncle's fortune as well as his title, must be very well to grass. "Let me introduce you to my daughter Celeste," she said smoothly.

  That accomplished, Lord Wrotham felt free to turn his attention to the younger Miss Wheaton. While inexperienced in courtship, he was unafflicted with any diffidence regarding his own sex and was able, with a single, pointed glance at his pocket-watch, to remind Mr. Barclay that his quarter hour had expired. Wrotham availed himself of the chair thus vacated, seating himself with a smile next to Miss Deirdre.

  "Good morning, Miss Wheaton," he said cordially. "You are looking well today," he added, feeling that a compliment of some sort was probably called for.

  "Oh, I am rarely ill, my lord," she responded guilelessly, then suddenly seemed to realize what he had meant to say. "Ah, thank you, my lord," she finished, with a twinkle in her clear grey eyes which caused Lord Wrotham to chuckle as it struck him how his "compliment" had sounded. Deirdre joined in his laughter and the ice between them was effectively broken.

  "What I suppose I should have said, Miss Wheaton, is that that colour suits you," said Wrotham after a moment.

  "Thank you, my lord, but do not trouble yourself to search for pretty phrases. I am not one to fish after compliments, I assure you," replied Deirdre sincerely. She had noticed, and rather deplored, that tendency in Celeste and had no wish for Lord Wrotham to think her equally vain.

  "That is a relief, I must admit," returned the Marquis with a smile. "I often find myself at a loss when a well-turned phrase is called for."

  "Oh?" Deirdre realized suddenly that he was giving her the opening she had both hoped for and feared. "And what think you of the well-turned phrases of others?" She couldn't quite bring herself to say "poetry"—it would be too much like an admission, she thought.

  To her dismay, Lord Wrotham frowned at her words. "Frequently, I find, the owner of the phrase thinks it far better than it is," he said decidedly. "Why, some of the drivel I've seen in the Examiner that is pleased to call itself poetry... well, it should never have been uttered aloud, much less set to paper for the whole world to see."

  Deirdre must have looked as stricken as she felt, for he stopped and said, "I apologize, Miss Wheaton. You have touched on something that is a particular aversion of mine, and I fear I over-reacted. What think you of the chances for rain?"

  Deirdre hardly knew how she answered him. His nearness to her made it difficult to concentrate, but one thought spun repeatedly through her brain: Lord Wrotham had an aversion to poetry! He had actually said so. Hard on the heels of that unpleasant discovery came another: she still found herself as disturbingly affected by him as ever.

  After a few minutes more of conversation on general topics, to which Deirdre contributed very little, the Marquis took his leave of her. He beckoned to Lord Ellerby, who seemed reluctant to rise
from his chair by Celeste's side, and the two gentlemen departed.

  Mr. Flinder was announced just as they were leaving, and his first words to Deirdre made her very glad that he had not arrived a moment sooner.

  "Have you had a chance to look over those verses I left with you, Didi?" he asked, taking the chair Lord Wrotham had so recently (and mercifully!) vacated. "You must tell me what you thought. And when am I to have the honour of seeing a sample of your poetry?"

  * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  "My poetry?" asked Deirdre distractedly, but Mr. Flinder was not attending. His eyes were fixed on her face in something akin to wonder.

  "D-Didi? Er, Miss Wheaton? What have, I mean, you... you look quite lovely!" He actually stood again so as to better survey the change in her appearance.

  Deirdre felt herself blushing at his frank regard. "Pray, sit down, Mr. Flinder. I have simply had my hair styled differently and put on a new gown, so you needn't goggle so. I am still the same person."

  Mr. Flinder sat back down quickly, murmuring an apology, but still his eyes were riveted to her face as if he could not believe what they told him. After another moment of rapt regard, he suddenly grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. Deirdre snatched it away at once with a frown, wondering what could have possessed him so.

  "I cannot help myself, Didi," he told her softly. "You are simply divine."

  Deirdre felt her temper rising. Jonas had not seemed to regard her in a loverlike manner before, but simply as a friend. It irked her that a mere change in her appearance should so affect his attitude towards her. "That is enough, Jonas," she said sharply. "I believe you wanted my opinion of your work?"

  "Yes, yes of course," he said as if coming out of a dream. "And now I will undoubtedly be inspired to write even more. Your beauty is poetry itself."