by Joan Smith
“I’m not a complete illiterate!” he said, offended. “I’ve heard of Lovelace. ‘Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.’ Was the author some kin to you?”
“I don’t think so. It seems he was from Kent, or inherited a property somewhere near here. Lord Sylvester wants to search the old family papers for a connection. I don’t know when he will do it, as he plans to leave tomorrow.”
“If you were wide-awake, you would invite him to spend the night. In the library, I mean!”
“I didn’t think you were encouraging me to seduce him, Harry. You are not quite that bad.”
“Certainly not. I never encourage older ladies to seduce minors. If you are in the mood for seduction, you must practice your charms on older gentlemen, like myself.”
“If I ever feel I require practice, I shall be sure to call on you. Now, shall we stop being foolish and return to the ballroom? You haven’t stood up with Annabelle. I shall hear about it if you don’t.”
Before they reached the ballroom, Dick came pelting out, wearing a scowl.
“Dash it, something has to be done about Sukey,” he said. “Annabelle is in a pelter, calling her a hoyden and I don’t know what all. Can’t you find her a governess, Roz? She is running wild.”
“Yes, you’re right. I had planned to wait until autumn, to let her have a summer free, but I see it will not do. There must be some nice girl who needs a position.”
“The Rafferty girl from Croydon is at liberty,” Harwell mentioned. “I was speaking to Lady Syon the other day. The chit Miss Rafferty was teaching has been sent to a ladies’ academy to put the final polish on her before her presentation next spring.”
“Sylvia Rafferty?” Rosalind said. “She would be perfect! Shall I speak to her, Dick, or will you? Perhaps you ought to interview her, as you are the one who will be here after I go to London.”
“I wish you would forget that notion.” Dick scowled. “Very well. I’ll call on Miss Rafferty tomorrow. Anything to get some peace in the house.”
The three returned to the ballroom. Annabelle was restored to a semblance of good humor by Harwell’s company for the next set. And Harwell was chirping merry when it was time for a midnight supper and still Lord Sylvester had not returned. Supper was an informal meal. Assorted dishes were laid out on a buffet table for the guests to fill their own plates and sit where they liked.
“It would be common of me to say, ‘I told you so,’ “ Harwell said, when he led Rosalind to the refreshment parlor, “so I shan’t say it.”
Rosalind was annoyed with Sylvester, but she refused to let Harwell see it. “Lord Sylvester didn’t say he would be back for supper,” she replied. “Merely that he would return before the party was over. He has very little interest in food, in any case.”
“So I have noticed. I, on the other hand, mean to fill my plate before Dick gets all the lobster patties.” Annabelle had had her way with the lobster patties. Mrs. Fortescue’s cook had prepared them and sent them over for the party.
They took their plates and made their selections. Rosalind sat with the Warbucks, to make more apologies for Sukey and to escape Annabelle, who sat with her parents and Dick and Harwell, very pleased to have garnered two gentlemen to her side.
Some of the older guests left immediately after supper. The younger ones stayed for a few more dances. By one-thirty they began taking their leave, and still Sylvester had not returned. At two o’clock everyone but Harwell had left. He gave Rosalind a quizzing look.
“It seems Sylvester has got lost along the straight mile of road between here and Merton Hall,” he said. “I shall keep an eye out for him on my way home. Perhaps he’s wandered to the Abbey in error.”
“I told him the party would be over around one. Very likely he found something interesting at Merton and stayed to examine it.”
“So I assume,” he murmured, repressing a smile.
“Some poetry. Very likely he stayed longer than he intended, to make a copy. I expect you will find him in bed at the Abbey when you return. Pity you stayed until the last dog was hung, only to have your little laugh at me.”
He allowed his smile to blossom and stretch into a grin at her annoyance. “It was worth it,” he said. “I can’t remember ever seeing you so angry before, or trying so hard to conceal it. Take care you don’t bust your stays.”
“I do not wear stays, and I’m not in the least angry. I am happy that Sylvester found so much material for Camena at Merton. It will boost the circulation.”
“If he disports himself in the manner approved by Amanda, he might not have to cadge off your neighbors for subscriptions the next time he calls.”
“You have the mind of a sewer rat, Lord Harwell.”
“Why, I only meant if he agreed to a few hands of cards with her. She likes playing cards nearly as much as she enjoys—er, other indoor sports.”
“I know exactly what you meant, and if you think you are making me jealous, you are far off the mark. I am only interested in Sylvester as my editor.”
It was half-true at least. She was more interested in him as an editor than as a potential husband. Until she saw what other gentlemen were available in London, she would not offer Sylvester much encouragement.
Harwell just gazed at her in the shadowed ballroom, where the musicians were packing up their instruments.
“Did you know your eyelashes flutter when you’re lying, Roz?” he asked.
“What makes you think I’m lying? Ladies usually flutter their eyelashes when they’re flirting with a gentleman, do they not?”
He looked around the room as the musicians picked up their cases and left, each making a bobbing bow to Rosalind on the way out. They were now left alone in the room.
“You mean me? I am honored that I should occur to you as a flirt, but I must point out your coquetry is so subtle as to be unrecognized. Sewer rats seldom enter the conversation during the better class of flirtation. We ought to be extolling each other’s charms.”
“That would be a pretty short conversation.”
“Speak for yourself! I could prose on for hours about your green eyes and fiery hair.”
As his gaze lingered on these items, she felt a twinge of discomfort, until it occurred to her that Harwell was roasting her. Then she felt able to retaliate.
“You must know I prefer poetry to prose, milord. And have you not a single word of praise for my new gown?” she asked, with a playful moue. “I should think when I go to the bother and expense of having a new gown made up, you might at least pretend you like it.”
“It is very . . . serviceable,” he said. “But I like the green muslin you hacked the top off better.” She sensed a new mood creeping into the atmosphere. It was the way he said it, rather suggestively. When he reached out and took her fingers, she just looked at him, startled.
“Your turn,” he said, smiling softly. “A flirtation is like weaving. The shuttle must go back and forth or the game stops. Surely a famous poetess can find something nice to say about me?”
She furrowed her brow, then said, “You’re very rich, and you have a title.”
“And here I thought romance was dead! Did I compliment you on your way with ciphering, or with a needle? We must soar above practicalities, my dear.”
A soft smile hovered at the edges of her lips. “I did like the way you rescued Snow Drop for Sukey, when you walked in the garden with her this morning, talking nonsense about Shakespeare. That was nice, Harry.”
His answering smile was gentle, more gentle than she had ever seen. “There, that didn’t hurt, did it? I knew you could think of something nice to say if you really tried.”
“There are lots of things about you that I like, but I shan’t spoil you by praise.”
“Oh, do! Spoil me!”
She hesitated a moment, thinking of Harwell’s better qualities, and there were many things about him she liked. His good humor, his willing help in any time of trouble, most of all, the ease of their
relationship. She said nothing, but the shadow of her thoughts lent an unaccustomed tenderness to her expression.
“You’re a good neighbor,” she said softly.
“That’s a beginning. I was hoping for something more—personal.” He looked, waiting. “Cat got your tongue? You might start with my hair. I’m not going bald, or gray.”
“True, and you’re not halt or lame either. I’m sorry, Harry. I can’t flirt with you. I know you too well. There. This is the best I can do.”
She reached up and placed a light kiss on his cheek. She had done it dozens of times, as Harwell had often kissed her in the same friendly manner. Birthdays, festive seasons, in sympathy at sad seasons, any little triumph, sometimes when he had been away and paid his first call at Apple Hill.
On those other occasions, Harwell hadn’t put his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. He hadn’t moved his head so that their lips brushed, sending tingles down her spine. She felt her lips quiver against his for a moment, then his arms tightened and he firmed her trembling lips with his. She gave in to the strange sensation of her first real kiss from Harwell. It was not at all as she had imagined. There was nothing rakish or dangerous in it, but only a spreading warmth and joy, followed by a strange, deep sort of yearning, like an emotional hunger.
She wanted it to go on and on. But when his hand began to move in sensuous circles over her back and he pressed her more tightly against his hard chest, she felt a treacherous flame of something she hardly recognized as passion. But she instinctively sensed the peril in it and drew away, breathless. Harry let her go without a struggle and just gazed at her in silence for a moment.
He could hardly say why he had kissed her. Roz was looking especially pretty, but then she always looked nice. Perhaps it was only the subject of their conversation—flirtation. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that she was leaving Apple Hill, moving to London. That she was romantically interested in Sylvester, whether she admitted it or not, lent her a new air of sexual interest.
She moved back a step and looked at him uncertainly, embarrassed at the unusual kiss. She smiled, expecting to see a bantering smile in return. Harwell simply went on gazing at her for a long moment, with a dark, brooding look.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“To see what it was like. What did you think?”
“I thought it was nice.”
“Well, I daresay that’s better than a slap in the face,” he said in a gruff voice. Then he lifted her fingers and placed a kiss in her palm, before turning and walking away rather quickly.
She stood watching as he went toward the front hall. She felt her heart banging in her chest and a heat in her cheeks. How very strange! How had that happened, after all these years? And what would she say the next time they met? Nothing like this had ever happened between them before. She rather wished it hadn’t happened now, yet she felt giddy in the aftermath of it.
Chapter Nine
Rosalind felt sure Sylvester would visit her the next day before leaving Drayton Abbey. With this in mind, she arranged her toilette with care, though she didn’t wear the green muslin with the adjusted neckline. She wore instead a simple gathered skirt of gamboge with a white half shirt and a green jacket, thinking the rustic style might appeal to the poet in Lord Sylvester. To match the simple outfit, she wore her hair pulled straight back from her face in a Grecian knot and donned a sunbonnet when she went out to the garden.
She wanted their last visit to be pleasant, and to avoid any altercation with Sukey, she had Dick take the child to Croydon with him for the interview with Miss Rafferty. Sylvia Rafferty was a little more than an acquaintance of the family, yet not a close friend. The ladies met regularly at church and at assemblies, but the families did not visit. Her papa had been an officer in the army. Upon his death, she and her mama had been reduced to living on his pension. When Mrs. Rafferty had remarried, Sylvia had gone to work as a governess.
Rosalind was seated in the rose garden with a copy of Wordsworth’s poems in her lap when she heard the crunch of boots on gravel. She decided to let Sylvester catch her unawares in this romantic setting. When the footfalls rounded the corner, she glanced up with a welcoming smile. Her smile froze. It wasn’t Sylvester who had come. It was Harwell.
The memory of last night’s kiss loomed up in her mind, causing some discomfort. In the bright light of day, the episode seemed like a dream. A close scrutiny of Harwell showed her no reflection of the embarrassment she was feeling. But then, what was one more kiss to Harry? He had obviously forgotten it already. Best to ignore it.
“Hullo, Harry. Where is Sylvester?” she asked, steeling herself to hear he had left without calling on her.
Harwell blinked and looked all around. “Isn’t he here? He didn’t return to the Abbey last night.”
“What!”
Harwell lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. “It must be a disappointment to you, and when you’ve posed yourself so artfully in the rose garden, too. The sunbonnet is a nice touch,” he added, grinning. “One assumes he found something of greater interest at Merton. Best hack another inch off your shirt, Roz. Stiff competition.”
She tossed the book aside and rose angrily. “And that is why you called, to carry tales and gloat? That is odious behavior, Harry.”
A scowl darkened Harwell’s brow. “Of course not! I thought he was here. You mentioned last night he wished to look over some papers in the library. As he’s supposed to leave for Astonby today, I assumed he had come here, worked late last night, and stayed over.”
Rosalind didn’t know whether she was more ashamed at Sylvester’s farouche treatment, or angry with Harwell for being the bearer of the news.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” he said. “And don’t take a fright. He hasn’t left for good. His things are still at the Abbey.”
She tried to assume an easy countenance. “Naturally he wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye. He is not a savage after all.”
“You may forgive him. I think it demmed uncivil behavior not to let me know he wasn’t returning last night. My butler was up till all hours, and finally went to bed with the door unlocked.”
“Something must have happened to him,” she cried in alarm.
He made a disparaging face. “I think we both know what ‘happened’ to him. Lady Amanda.”
“You would think that,” she scoffed. “I expect he discovered some marvelous finds in the library and fell asleep while perusing them.”
“Very likely he found something marvelous, but I doubt it was in the library—and I doubt he fell asleep before investigating all the possibilities of his marvelous find.”
“If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, pray leave.”
“What—leave you now, when you most need a good neighbor’s shoulder to cry on?” he asked, unfazed at her outburst.
She sensed an oblique reference to their conversation of the night before and regretted her rudeness. Harry was a good neighbor. She would not let Sylvester come between her and Harry.
“You needn’t look so pleased about it,” she said. “Furthermore, I don’t believe it for a moment. Sylvester is not like that.”
“He’s a man.”
“Hasn’t he grown up quickly? Just the other day he was a boy.”
“Amanda has that effect on boys,” he informed her, with a satirical grin.
She answered in the same rallying tone. “You have said what you came here to say, Harwell. If you have no more scandal to spread, you must not let me keep you from more worthwhile pursuits.”
“That’s not why I came! Have you ever known me to be the cause of scandal?”
“More times than I can count on the fingers of both hands.”
He colored up. “Of spreading scandal, I mean.”
“Oh, I can acquit you of that. You are always careful to keep your own doings under wraps, and as to the other, it takes a good deal to scandalize you—unless it involves Lord Sylvester and myself.”
“Just looking out for a friend,” he said. “But as my interest displeases you, I shall not interfere again. I am going to Croydon. I thought you might like me to have a word with Miss Rafferty, or deliver a note, if you prefer.”
“Dick went to town to see her. Thank you anyway.”
“You’re welcome. Can I do anything for you while I am in town?”
“Don’t forget Sukey’s sugarplums,” she reminded him. “You promised.”
“And unlike some gentlemen, I shall keep my promise.”
“Yes, eventually. Sylvester didn’t promise he would return last night, you know. He merely mentioned it.”
“Sylvester?” he said, feigning surprise. “How the fellow preys on your mind. I was speaking of Dick. He promised his gardener would send mine a receipt for a rose spray against black mold, but he didn’t do it.”
He looked, hoping to win a smile. When she didn’t smile or invite him to sit down, he said good-bye and turned to leave. Before he had taken two steps, Sylvester came rushing out of the house into the garden.
“I am covered in shame!” he cried, first to Harwell, then to Rosalind. “What must you think of me? Such untoward behavior. Really I cannot find words to say, except I am extremely sorry.”
A glance showed he had not met with any physical violence. His clothing was intact, his face unmarked. “What happened, milord?” she asked.
“You’ll never guess who was at Merton when we arrived!”
“Byron?” Rosalind exclaimed.
“Byron? No, I would hardly stay away all night for Lord Byron,” he scoffed. “He was run out of Town a year ago in any case. No, it was Coleridge. He landed in at midnight. It turns out he was a great friend of Lady Amanda’s mama.”
Roz was coming to realize Sylvester was intensely jealous of any young poet who was well known. Coleridge was old enough to have become a legend, and was therefore above reproach.
She sighed. “How I should love to have met him!”
“You shall, Miss Lovelace.”
“Is he coming here?”