That thought brought him up short again. Love her? Yes, now that he mentally said the word, he realized it was perfectly true; had been true for some time, in fact. He tried in vain to recall the exact moment, word or look when he had become ensnared, but it had happened too gradually, hidden even from himself until now.
This realization made the answer to his second question imperative: who had that ode been about? And when had she written it? He thought over the various men he had seen her with, but could remember no particular preference she had shown to any of them, save perhaps himself.
Suddenly, he recalled her private conversation with that dandified beanpole —what was his name? Flinder? —at Lady Heatherton's. He remembered hearing from someone, Southey perhaps, that the man fancied himself a poet, though his attempts were generally laughable. Could he be the one she meant?
A jealous fury rose up in him at the thought, startling him considerably; Wrotham could not recall ever having been truly jealous before. But now, the very thought of Deirdre giving herself to that... that fribble filled him with rage. She deserved so much better!
He put his horse back into a trot, forcing himself to think more calmly. Surely, Deirdre could see Flinder for the ineffectual fop he obviously was. She was by no means unobservant. Perhaps it was someone else, then; someone from the country. After all, he had no way of knowing that the ode he had read had been written since her arrival in London.
There was only one way he could reasonably find out, he decided abruptly. He turned his horse towards home, rapidly making plans.
* * *
That afternoon a note was delivered from Lord Wrotham and Lady Penrose fairly pounced on it. "Perhaps he wishes you to drive out with him again, Didi," she said optimistically as she unfolded the paper. She had clearly not given up hope of announcing two engagements at the upcoming ball.
Deirdre held her breath as her mother read the note, and watched in despair as the Baroness's face fell. "What... what does he say?" she forced herself to ask.
"He has left Town, and so will be unable to accompany us to Mrs. Greene's tomorrow night. He says he will attempt to return in time for our ball on Monday, however," she added with a sigh. "We can only hope that he will, I suppose. Whatever can have taken him from Town at the height of the Season?"
"Perhaps he has business on one of his estates," offered Deirdre dully, feeling certain that it was something else entirely.
"That must be it," decided Lady Penrose. "However, if he is not to return until the ball, I suppose my mention of him to your father was wasted."
"Mama! Whatever can you mean? What did you say to Father? Lord Wrotham has never implied that he means to offer for me!" Deirdre felt herself blushing at the delicious thought, even while she knew how unlikely her own actions made such an outcome.
"Pish, tush! The whole world has noticed the attention he has paid you, more than he has ever been known to do for any other female. It's almost as good as a declaration. I simply took the precaution of asking your father's approval of Wrotham in my letter about Charles and Celeste, so that if he did make you an offer before Monday we should not have to wait on the mails to make the announcement." She was obviously well pleased with her cleverness in the matter.
Deirdre wondered if her mother had been this forward when trying to snag Lord Wrotham for Althea three years earlier. If so, it went a long way to explain his reluctance to spend much time in the Baroness's presence. Deirdre herself could not help but be embarrassed by her mother's attitude, even if she not already spoiled everything herself, with her needless deceit.
"Are we expected somewhere tonight?" she asked, as much to change the subject as because she wanted to know.
"Of course. What a silly question," replied Lady Penrose. "We are to dine with the Heathertons, as we have not got together intimately with them since our arrival in Town, and as Margaret and I are such close friends. Afterwards, we go to the Burroughs' rout. I know Lord Wrotham will not be present, but Julia Heatherton will be, and you and she have become fast friends, have you not?"
"Oh, certainly," Deirdre lied without enthusiasm. Further acquaintance had shown Miss Heatherton to be even shallower than Deirdre had first suspected, without opinions of her own and never a thought in her head beyond gossip and fashion.
Already, Deirdre felt one of her convenient headaches coming on—or perhaps she would develop a cough this time. Socializing seemed less attractive than ever without Lord Wrotham's possible presence during the evening to look forward to. She wondered again what business had taken him from Town, and whether he might possibly listen to an apology upon his return.
* * *
Riding north through Bedford late that afternoon, Lord Wrotham wondered for the hundredth time whether he was doing the right thing. Might he not, in effect, be taking the decision out of Deirdre's hands? Of course, it was to prevent just that that he had decided on his present course rather than approaching Miss Wheaton or, worse, her mother in Town. First, he had to discover if there were another claim on her heart. If she truly loved whoever she had written about in that tragic ode, she would surely be miserable if forced to wed elsewhere.
Again he wished he had had time to read all of the poem; perhaps, had he asked, that hen-witted Celeste would have given it to him. But no, that would not have been right. His own few attempts at poetry were intensely personal to him. No doubt Deirdre felt likewise. If he discovered what he hoped to during this excursion, there would be ample time later to read what she had written.
It was dark when he reached the border of Northampton and too late to pay a call, so he decided to put up at an inn until morning. The Golden Goose was not luxurious, but it was clean and he had no complaints. After a leisurely breakfast the next morning, Lord Wrotham rode the last few miles to his destination.
Never having had occasion to travel in this district before, the Marquis examined the countryside with interest as he approached the village of Roseton. Oak trees predominated, and the grass was lush and green, with spring wildflowers everywhere. He could well appreciate why Deirdre enjoyed her walks here. Other than the Penrose residence, there appeared to be no houses of particular note in the area, however. His hopes rose.
Lord Wrotham stopped when he reached the open gates of Rose Manor. The house spread invitingly at the end of a long, straight drive and he impatiently shook his doubts aside. This was what he had decided was best, and now that he was here he would see it through. Spurring his horse, he trotted up the drive to dismount before the oaken double doors.
"Would you tell Lord Penrose that the Marquis of Wrotham desires an audience with him?" he said in reply to the elderly butler's offer to be of assistance. The grey-haired retainer bowed him into a cool, dimly lit drawing room and went to convey the message.
Looking about him, Wrotham decided that the room must be rarely, if ever, used in Lady Penrose's absence. The Baron must either be a recluse or an invalid, neither of which boded well for his being received. After only a minute or two, however, the butler returned and gestured for the Marquis to follow him.
"Lord Penrose will see you in his study. He is in the midst of a difficult translation and fears to lose his place if he leaves it."
Wrotham wondered whether the baron had offered this explanation or if the butler felt the need of one to justify his master's odd behaviour. In any event, it perturbed him not at all, as he often received guests in his own study at home.
"Come in, come in, and shut the door behind you," commanded his host the moment the butler opened the study door. "Draughts are something to be avoided, for obvious reasons." The stoop-shouldered little man gestured around at the sheaves of paper piled upon tables, desks and chairs. "Sit down and be quiet. I'll be with you as soon as I've finished this paragraph."
Wrotham obediently sat in the only other chair in the room which was not littered with papers and waited, examining Deirdre's father with interest as he worked. He was not actually as small as he had first appeare
d; it was his hunched position which gave that effect. Undoubtedly, he was not so old as he looked, either, for his hair still showed many strands of gold amidst the silver.
Straightening abruptly, Lord Penrose turned bespectacled eyes of the same clear grey as Deirdre's on his guest. "Lord Wrotham, is it?" The Marquis nodded, rising and offering his hand. His host ignored it. "And what might you want?" His bushy eyebrows drew down in a forbidding frown, but Wrotham was not intimidated.
"I have come to request your daughter Deirdre's hand in marriage, my lord," he replied calmly.
* * *
CHAPTER 15
Lord Penrose continued to regard the marquis piercingly for a moment, then his frown abruptly disappeared and he began to chuckle.
"Well, I see you're not lily-livered, at least," he remarked after he had amused himself in this way for some seconds. "Now you can tell me why you felt obliged to come all the way out here to ask me that question. My wife generally handles such things, as you must know."
Lord Wrotham decided that honesty would best serve him. "From what I know of Lady Penrose and have heard from Miss Deirdre of yourself, I thought I would be more comfortable dealing with you, sir."
The Baron gave him a twisted smile. "Not one of those social butterfly types, eh?" He nodded. "Just as well. You won't be wanting to drag Didi about to balls and such when she could be working on her poetry and other studies. She had a poem published, did you know that?" The pride in his voice was evident, and Wrotham warmed to the man even more.
"I… was able to deduce it," he replied carefully. "It is not common knowledge about Town, you know."
"Why the blazes not?" demanded his host. Then, answering his own question, "Ah, Vivian, of course. Lady Penrose, as you have observed, tends to set great store by social, rather than literary, success. In fact, I suspect she feels that one should preclude the other. That was precisely what I feared for Didi when she left for Town. But she must have heeded my advice after all."
Wrotham nodded uncertainly at this analysis before bringing Lord Penrose back to the subject at hand. "No doubt. But as to the purpose of my visit..." He held his breath, fearing to hear of some previous attachment of Deirdre's, though indeed that had been his primary reason for making this journey in the first place. If her father, or younger sisters, knew of such a partiality, they would be less likely than Lady Penrose to pressure Deirdre into the more advantageous match which he represented.
Lord Penrose waved his hand impatiently. "Yes, yes, marry the girl. No doubt you'll do better than most of the other young bucks she's encountered by now." He snorted. "Vivian seems to have shown good judgement for once, probably by accident."
Lord Wrotham's eyebrows rose questioningly.
"Lady Penrose has already written, asking my consent to the match. I sent off my reply last night. Told you she's the one who handles these things."
"But..."
Wrotham realised in time that it would be impolitic to tell Lord Penrose that he had not yet actually offered for his daughter. It seemed that Lady Penrose had wanted to be prepared, so that there would be no delay in announcing the betrothal. Surprisingly, the knowledge that he had been that transparent did not trouble him. Flinder, or whoever that ode had been about, must be no threat after all. Suddenly light-hearted, he turned back to his host with a smile.
"I hear you are a scholar, Lord Penrose. What, precisely, are you studying now?"
This successfully diverted the Baron, who was always willing to discuss his work; it was rare, however, that he found anyone equally willing to listen. He and Lord Wrotham settled into a protracted discussion of ancient documents and the discoveries and difficulties presented by their translation.
* * *
"Do I look all right, Mama?" asked Celeste as she entered the drawing-room in a vivid pink day dress which matched the roses in her cheeks. "Charles will be arriving at any moment to take me shopping for a few odds and ends I shall need for my ball tomorrow."
Lady Penrose gazed lovingly at her Celeste. "You look divine, as always, my angel," she said with satisfaction before turning a more critical eye on her other daughter, who sat silently embroidering in the corner. "But you, Didi! Why are you wearing that old gown? I vow, you look almost as dowdy as you did in the country!"
Deirdre met her mother's gaze steadily. "I am done pretending to be something that I am not," she replied quietly but firmly. "I'm sure Celeste is fashionable enough for both of us."
The Baroness frowned. "What nonsense is this? Once you decided to dress properly, you became an instant success, nearly as much so as Celeste. Does that not prove what I have said all along?"
"That the fashionable world judges by appearance?" inquired Deirdre with a lifted brow. "Yes, I suppose it does."
"That is not precisely what I said, and well you know it," retorted Lady Penrose defensively, as some inkling of Deirdre's meaning penetrated. "There is nothing wrong, surely, in making the most of the gifts God has given you."
"No, there is not," Deirdre agreed. "That is why I have decided to publish more of my poetry, as Mr. Hunt suggested. Under my own name."
Lady Penrose was aghast. "You will do no such thing! Do you wish the world to think you nothing more than a bluestocking? No eligible gentleman will come near you!"
"I would rather be thought a bluestocking than an empty-headed lady of fashion," Deirdre informed her mother bluntly. "Any gentleman who would avoid me because I have a mind is hardly a loss, to my thinking."
Lady Penrose was uncertain how to handle her normally compliant daughter in this new mood. She remembered that her husband had urged her to allow Deirdre to make her poetry public in his last letter, but she had carefully kept that to herself. Obviously, however, she dared not appeal to him for help.
"I have only your best interests at heart, my dear," she said finally. "What will Lord Wrotham think when he returns to find you so changed?"
"If he returns," put in Celeste unexpectedly. "Althea did warn you, Didi," she added. "She said not to put too much stock in his attentions. He played false with her feelings three years ago. Don't let him hurt you, too, Didi."
Deirdre had heard Beata's version of that story, and knew it was not the same. No, it was her own actions, her own deceit, which had driven Lord Wrotham away. She had learned her lesson now, and would never again deny her love of poetry, or her writing of it. Nor did she see any point, now, in taking great pains with her appearance. She had not the slightest wish to entrap some brainless beau to appease her mother. The life of a spinster had begun to look rather attractive, in fact. Love was too painful.
Accordingly, when she came downstairs that evening just in time to leave for a rout at Lady Melcher's, she was wearing the plain grey gown she had worn to Althea's card-party at the beginning of the Season. Her hair was pulled back in a simple bun, for she had refused to allow Marie to dress, or even braid it.
"Honestly, Didi!" exclaimed her exasperated mother. "I have a mind to forbid you to leave the house looking like that. Where is the blue-and-white dress I asked Marie to lay out for you?"
"I decided not to wear it," said Deirdre indifferently. "But I have no objection to staying home, if you would prefer it."
Lady Penrose glowered. "If there were time, I would require you to change this instant," she said severely. "I hope you do not mean to spoil the ball tomorrow night by some such start."
"Oh, please do not!" pleaded Celeste in sudden alarm. "You will wear your new white-and-lavender ball gown, will you not, Didi? It will embarrass me to death if you come looking like a servant. After all," she added kindly, "it is to be your ball as well as mine. You should look your very best for it."
Deirdre could see that Celeste was truly concerned and, in spite of her own heartbreak, she had no wish to detract from her sister's happiness. "I shall not embarrass you, Celeste," she promised. "You will be able to enjoy your ball."
Celeste was apparently satisfied with this assurance, for she spoke no more on
the subject.
* * *
In spite of Lady Penrose's dire predictions, no one snubbed Deirdre for her attire at the rout, though she received a few curious glances. Celeste was surrounded by admirers as always, though she clung determinedly to Lord Ellerby's arm. Deirdre's retinue had fallen off somewhat of late, as it had become apparent that Lord Wrotham favoured her, and none of her remaining admirers seemed to be present this evening.
She told herself that she did not mind, that she would only have been bored with the empty flattery of some stylish young buck, but in truth she was feeling rather forlorn. She had become accustomed to popularity. Unfortunately, none of the literary circle appeared to be present either, which left Deirdre with virtually no one to talk to.
Midway through the evening, Beata arrived and hurried to Deirdre's side as soon as she noticed her sister standing alone. "Gracious, Didi, what have you done to yourself?" was her first remark, which did not help Deirdre's flagging spirits.
"It's more what I haven't done, Beata," she replied, with a crooked attempt at a smile which unfortunately told her sister something was dreadfully wrong.
"Will you tell me about it?" she asked simply. Deirdre nodded and Beata led her to a small divan in a quiet comer. Once seated, Deirdre took a deep breath and began.
"You were right, I fear, Beata. I should never have kept my poetry a secret from Lord Wrotham." She related the story of his call in her absence and subsequent discovery of the poem she had written about him. "He left Town later that same day. He must be thoroughly disgusted with me!" she concluded. "So you see, all of our fine plans and stratagems to attract him have come to naught. Why ever did I try to be what I am not?"
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