"Please do not on my account. I rather think you should first turn your attention to improving that which you have already written." She rushed into a franker critique than she had intended to give him, to forestall any more such compliments. She listed the defects she had discovered in his imagery, conflicting moods, even his basic rhyme and metre.
"You didn't like it," he stated flatly, his eyes on the floor, when she had finished. At the sudden constraint in his manner, she belatedly realized that she had mortally offended him.
"I didn't precisely say that," protested Deirdre, inadvertently doing more harm than good. She bit her lip in frustration. "You told me you wanted my honest opinion," she reminded him.
"Very well," said Jonas curtly, "now you must let me critique some of your work. Fair is fair. Though I doubt someone like you— " his eyes raked over her again, this time scathingly "—could do as well as a man." His eyes narrowed. "Do you really write poetry at all? Or was that merely a fable to ensnare me?"
Stung, Deirdre stood abruptly. "One moment, please," she said haughtily and flounced out of the room, drawing interested stares from the other occupants of the drawing-room. In a minute or two, she was back, a sheaf of paper in her hand.
"Here, sir, are your own verses, along with two of my own. You may tell me your opinion— your honest opinion— at Lady Millbanke's tomorrow night. And now I bid you good day."
Jonas frowned uncertainly, suddenly understanding that he had alienated, perhaps beyond repair, this girl who stood to be so useful to him. He had counted on his poetry to impress her; obviously, it had not, and now his anger, born of wounded vanity, had betrayed him. Since she had patently dismissed him, Jonas stood slowly, but made an effort to retrieve matters.
"Didi, I—" he began, but she cut him off.
"I believe I would prefer to be 'Miss Wheaton' after all, Mr. Flinder. Good day," she repeated.
"I'll see you at Lady Millbanke's, Miss Wheaton," he said with a sketchy bow and departed, along with the last of Celeste's morning callers.
"Now whatever was that about, Didi?" asked Celeste avidly when only the Penrose ladies remained in the drawing-room. "Was Mr. Flinder jealous of Lord Wrotham?"
"Lord Wrotham?" echoed Deirdre. Her anger at Mr. Flinder had driven thoughts of the Marquis and the dilemma he presented from her head momentarily, but now they flooded back. "No, of course not," she said vaguely, her mind busy. "If you will excuse me, I have some embroidery to do in my chamber." Leaving her mother and sister to blink in confusion after her, Deirdre slowly walked out of the room.
Alone in her bedchamber, Deirdre actually did fish a piece of embroidery out of the work bag next to the comfortable chair she sank into. She had always composed more readily while her hands were thus occupied, and hoped that the stitchery would similarly assist clarity of thought now. For surely she needed it more than ever before.
She thought about her resentment earlier that Mr. Flinder should act so differently because of the way she looked; but wasn't the same true of Lord Wrotham? Her grand plan to attract him seemed to have worked. She had his interest, if not yet his love, but did she really want it? Always, she had thought those who made judgements based on appearances must be shallow people, not worth knowing —but what did Lord Wrotham know of her beyond her face and clothes?
And what did she know of him beyond his handsome, athletic exterior, except that he despised poetry? For as long as she could remember, Deirdre's life had revolved around her poetry. It was—or had been— everything to her. And now, its pre-eminence in her life was in danger of being usurped by Lord Wrotham, a man she barely knew, and yet was irresistibly drawn to. What was she to do?
The obvious solution, she told herself, was to have nothing more to do with the Marquis. She could pretend he had never existed, had never played havoc with her emotions. It was absurd to think she might give up her beloved poetry for some fashionable gentleman who undoubtedly preferred cock-fights and horse-racing to a good book.
But then the compelling face of that particular fashionable gentleman swam before the tambour she was busily embroidering and her resolution wavered. After all, within her own family she had done most of her composing in secret. Why could she not continue to do so? Involuntarily, her anguish gave rise to a rhyme in her head.
Deirdre had read that writing poetry had been a kind of release for more than one of the great poets, making suffering, especially the suffering of unrequited love, more bearable; perhaps it would do the same for her. Putting aside her embroidery, she moved to the desk and allowed her thoughts and feelings to flow through her pen.
* * *
"I wouldn't have beleived it possible, but she's even more beautiful than Lady Thumble was three years ago," Ellerby was saying for at least the third time since he and Wrotham had left Penrose House. "And every bit as engaging. There's a certain innocence, a joie de vivre that I never noticed in Althea, as well. She spoke to me as much as to anyone else there, I think, though she'd only just met me. Do you think she likes me, Ed?"
"Assuredly, Charles. How could she help it, such a charming fellow as you are? Your only fault is a tendency to rattle on a bit." He hoped his friend would take the hint and leave him to his thoughts for a few minutes, but he was doomed to disappointment.
"I can't think why I never thought to ask Lady Thumble if she had a sister. I mean, besides Mrs. Jameson, of course, since she is already married."
Wrotham lengthened his stride. As the day was fine, they had chosen to walk the few blocks separating his imposing residence in Berkeley Square from Penrose House on Mount Street. "So you intend to make Miss Wheaton an offer, do you Charles?" he asked with a sidelong glance at his friend.
As he had expected, the question brought Ellerby up short. "An offer? I say, Ed, hadn't thought that far ahead. Not hanging out for a wife, after all. Still a young man and all that." They continued on in the silence Lord Wrotham had craved, both gentlemen now deep in thought.
In spite of, or perhaps because of, its apparent success, Wrotham was already regretting his first attempt at match-making. He feared that he might have done his friend a disservice by subjecting him to the charms of Celeste Wheaton, who was so like the idealized lost love Ellerby had been lamenting for three years. If he were to marry the girl, would she be constantly compared to her elder sister? That hardly seemed fair.
And then there was Charles. He appeared to be thoroughly besotted by a girl he knew nothing of apart from her beautiful face and pleasant drawing-room manners. That was hardly a basis for a lasting alliance.
Wrotham nearly stopped in his tracks as the realization hit him. Was that not precisely what was happening to himself? What did he know of Miss Deirdre Wheaton that Charles did not know of Celeste? Nothing, he was forced to answer. There was an intelligence in her eyes, her expression, that made him wish to know her better, but he could not be sure after less than half an hour's conversation whether it truly existed or not. She could be as stupid as a cow for all he had been able to discover so far.
But she was certainly prettier than one, he could not help thinking with a smile. Remembering her face, the way she turned her head, he felt a warm glow coursing through him. Was this love? He had heard the poets describe it so, but had never quite believed in it for mere mortals like himself. A gentleman married for breeding or wealth, preferably choosing a partner that would not irritate him unduly over the course of a lifetime together. That was certainly what he had intended to do. Love had never been a part of his plan.
Looking up, he realized that they were drawing near to his house and pushed away such thoughts. As he had said to himself last night, the Season was only beginning. There would be ample time to decide what he should do about Miss Deirdre Wheaton.
Why then, did he feel so impatient?
* * *
After venting her feelings on paper, Deirdre felt somewhat calmer. Without so much as looking over what she had written, she folded the pages in two and tucked them between s
ome blank sheets of paper in the desk drawer.
During the noon meal, Lady Penrose and Celeste were deep in plans for the double ball (as Celeste had dubbed it) which was to be held in two weeks' time. To Deirdre's relief, they seemed to have forgotten her odd behaviour of that morning, for on reflection she realized how distracted she must have appeared. She had no desire to be asked questions to which she had not yet formulated answers.
"How soon shall we send out invitations, Mama?" Celeste was asking.
"As soon as we have our guest list assembled, I should think," replied Lady Penrose. "That way, instead of working our ball around the other events of the Season, everyone else will be forced to work around us."
"But suppose the Prince or some duchess has planned a ball for that same night?" asked Celeste apprehensively. "Would not everyone then shun ours? I should be mortified if my... our come-out ball is not a crush."
"If necessary, we can change the date, even after the invitations are sent out," conceded the Baroness. "It has been done before. But you are already such a success, my dear, that I dare swear many people would rather be here than at one of Prinny's dull dos. It is not unheard of, by any means, to attend two or even three parties in an evening. We shall be forced to do so ourselves before the Season is out, I assure you."
This reassurance seemed to allay Celeste's fears and she fell to discussing the guest list. "Lord Ellerby, that friend of Lord Wrotham's who called this morning, was very nice, I think, Mama. May we invite him? Of course, he is not so handsome as Sir Malcolm, but—" She broke off, clearly remembering what her mother had said that morning and preferring not to provoke more strictures about Sir Malcolm.
"Surely we may," replied Lady Penrose, ignoring Celeste's last remark. "He is very highly placed in the ton and quite eligible. And a friend of Lord Wrotham's, as well." This with a significant glance in Deirdre's direction, which that young lady carefully pretended not to notice.
Deirdre had no wish to elevate her mother's hopes until she had made up own mind about the man. She bent her thoughts to doing just that as Celeste continued to chatter about the ball throughout the remainder of the meal.
* * *
That afternoon, shortly before five, Sir Malcolm called to take Celeste driving, as arranged. He was shown into the drawing-room, where Lady Penrose sat with her two daughters, Celeste resplendent in a canary-yellow carriage dress with vivid green-and-orange trim and Deirdre, busily embroidering, gowned in a shade of lavender which set off her pale colouring to perfection.
"Good day, Sir Malcolm," said the Baroness, inclining her head as he executed a leg to her. "Do sit with us for a moment before you go. Peters, a word with you." She beckoned to the footman who had shown their visitor in.
As Sir Malcolm seated himself amiably next to Celeste to pick up the thread of the conversation they had been enjoying last night at Almack's, Lady Penrose said something in an undertone to the footman, who nodded and quickly left the room. He reappeared a moment later with the answer to her ladyship's question, and she narrowed her eyes slightly and dismissed him with a motion of her head.
"Sir Malcolm," she said, breaking into his tete-a-tete with Celeste, "would you mind terribly taking Didi along as well? She has expressed a desire to see the Park and I had promised to take her this afternoon, but I find myself rather too tired just now."
Deirdre and Celeste both regarded their mother with surprise, as Lady Penrose was not in the habit of admitting to fatigue, but Sir Malcolm seemed to see nothing strange in the request. His smile was a shade less broad, however, as he answered, "Of course, my lady, it would be an honour."
Lady Penrose smiled and thanked him, quite satisfied. That would teach him to attempt to take her Celeste driving without his groom along to bear them company! Obviously, she had been right in her assessment of the man all along.
Still regarding her mother curiously, Deirdre rose. "I'll just run upstairs for my pelisse, then, and shall join you in a moment." She clearly had no idea what Lady Penrose was about, but knew better than to question her in front of a guest.
Celeste might have her suspicions of her mother's motives, but remained silent on the point, instead turning her attention to charming Sir Malcolm out of any ill humour the Baroness's request might have engendered.
Sir Malcolm, however, seemed not to be particularly perturbed at the arrangement when he found himself situated between the two sisters on the seat of his phaeton. Taking up the ribbons, he put the matched bays into a brisk trot and made for the Park.
Deirdre looked about her with interest, trying to ignore the fact that she was undoubtedly an unwanted third in the party. She had been watching Sir Malcolm carefully, bearing in mind what her mother had said that morning, and was beginning to believe that Celeste could indeed do better. Not that wealth was so very important, of course, but Sir Malcolm's smooth way with a compliment implied that he had practiced them on a great many ladies, and Celeste deserved a husband devoted only to her.
Deirdre found the Park delightful, with its trees, small ponds and stretches of grassland criss-crossed by bridle-roads, carriage-ways and footpaths. She resolved to return, soon and frequently, to walk here— though preferably at a less crowded hour. Most of the fashionable world seemed now assembled, riding, walking and rolling slowly by, stopping frequently to nod, speak or gossip with one another. Both sisters were recognized by numerous acquaintances and Deirdre marvelled at this evidence that they already knew so many people in London.
Having exchanged greetings with Lady Heatherton and Julia, who were taking the air in an open barouche, Deirdre turned to make a comment to Celeste when she saw riding towards them the Marquis of Wrotham, astride an enormous grey. He was accompanied by a portly young man she had not previously met, riding a smaller chestnut that seemed barely up to his weight. She was just trying to decide whether to speak first or to wait for him to acknowledge them when he spied her and rode forward with a delighted smile.
"Miss Wheaton!" Lord Wrotham exclaimed. "I did not know you planned to drive in the Park today."
"Good day, Lord Wrotham," replied Deirdre, striving not to blush at the frank admiration in his gaze. "Have you met Sir Malcolm Digby?" She was startled at the abrupt change in his expression.
"Indeed. Digby," replied Lord Wrotham with a curt nod, his displeasure evident.
"Good day, Wrotham," returned Sir Malcolm, his expression all that was civil and proper. "And Mr. Gates. I have not seen you about this week past, Myron."
"Been a tad short of funds," drawled Wrotham's pudgy companion peevishly. "Perhaps you could prevail—"
"Well, we mustn't keep you," broke in Wrotham almost rudely. He seemed upset about something, but Deirdre could not imagine what. "You'll be at Lady Millbanke's tomorrow, Miss Wheaton?" She nodded. "I'll... I'll hope to see you there, then." He appeared to want to add something, but after an infinitesimal pause, he set his mouth in a hard line and rode on.
Myron Gates raised his quizzing glass to scrutinize the occupants of Sir Malcolm's phaeton, his gaze lingering thoughtfully on Deirdre, before following Lord Wrotham more slowly.
* * *
CHAPTER 8
Lady Millbanke's was the first important ball of the Season and, as such, drew everyone who was anyone to see and be seen by their contemporaries. The Millbanke house, an imposing residence in Grosvenor Square, was reputed to boast the largest ballroom in London and Lord Millbanke, an influential man in government circles, was no more inclined to let it go to waste than was his sociable wife.
As at Almack's two nights ago, Celeste was immediately surrounded by her retinue of admirers. She was wearing one of her few white gowns, though it was not precisely demure, trimmed as it was with scarlet and royal blue. Deirdre had refrained from commenting on her sister's patriotism; after all, both France and the new United States of America shared those colours.
Also as before, several of Celeste's erstwhile followers gravitated into Deirdre's somewhat smaller orbit, not
ably Mr. Barclay and Lord Linley, as well as Mr. Flinder, who had rushed to her side the moment their party was announced. He hastened to inform her that she was looking particularly fetching, in her new gown of palest ice blue.
"If you are not yet engaged for the first dance, would you be so kind as to honour me?" he asked eagerly. "I do so want to get back into your good graces!"
The soulful look on his face was almost comical and, as no one else had yet had opportunity to put his name on her dance card, Deirdre assented with a smile. She had never been able to carry a grudge, and had already forgiven Jonas his ill temper of the day before; after all, she had been rather harsh about his poetry, and she doubted that she would enjoy such criticism any more than he had.
Mr. Barclay then petitioned to sign her card, as did Lord Linley and two or three other gentlemen present in the circle about Deirdre and her sister. Her dance card began to fill, and she had not yet so much as seen Lord Wrotham, she realized in sudden panic. What if he did not come until all of her dances were taken? Or, worse, what if he did not come at all? He had not actually asked her to save him a dance, but still...
At that moment, Lord Wrotham was announced. He took a flatteringly direct route to Deirdre's side and bowed elegantly over her hand. "That colour suits you," he said, which somehow satisfied her more than the flowery compliments the other gentlemen had been lavishing upon her. "Dare I hope your first dance is still free?"
"Sorry, Wrotham, I was ahead of you there," broke in Mr. Flinder triumphantly before Deirdre could answer. "Late-comers don't stand a chance with a diamond like Miss Wheaton."
Deirdre shot Jonas an annoyed glance before holding out her card to the Marquis. "I do have a few dances still unclaimed, my lord," she murmured, careful not to appear too eager. Beata had warned her on that score; and besides, she still had some thinking to do about Lord Wrotham. She hoped that her mind might be more settled by the end of the evening.
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