“Thank you, Your Grace. Wildenhall – I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Trent moved on into the large parlour, where other guests milled about. It was not too crowded. Footmen circulated, offering drinks, and a small group of musicians played softly from a rather cramped spot in one corner of the room. He accepted a drink and looked about, desperately hoping to see someone whom he knew well enough to wish to talk to. That wish appeared to be in vain. Across the room, he saw a cluster of young women, who had enough of a similarity about their features that he concluded they must be sisters – most likely the Duke’s daughters – there were seven of them, Setford had informed him.
Their hair varied in shade, from light blonde to a rich golden brown – all were beautiful, yet each distinctly different. He wondered what it would be like, to be part of such a large family.
The girls moved about, speaking to each other and to some of the guests, and he found himself idly watching as he sipped the wine in his hand. One of them turned, and he saw her face directly, for the first time. The noise around him faded away, and everything else seemed somehow less clear and sharp, as if the light from the chandelier above fell only upon that one woman.
He felt an odd rush of warmth through his body, and his breath came short. With difficulty, he dragged his eyes away from her. What had just happened? He did not know, but he found that he needed the drink in his hand, needed to remind himself of the reason he was here, the reason that he would be attending so many more evenings like this. And that was to observe and listen, not to stand staring rudely at one of his host’s daughters. He turned to watch the other side of the room, and nearly collided with Wildenhall.
“Canterford, there you are. The majority of the guests have finally arrived, and I have escaped the receiving line, thank God. I thought I’d find you, and follow through on that offer to introduce you around.”
“I’d appreciate that. I was never much for city society, and then the year of mourning pulled me away from everything – I find that I am lamentably unaware of who is who and what the fads and fashions are.”
“I doubt I can help with fads and fashions, but let me start by introducing you to my sisters. It’s my official brotherly duty to introduce them to every eligible man in society.” Trent must have winced a little, for Wildenhall laughed and went on, “I assure you, they are not your typical society misses.”
“No? That sounds interesting – what makes them different?”
“A grim determination to do things their way, regardless of what society expects. And far more intelligence than is regarded as suitable in a woman. If they ever all agree on something, they are a force to be reckoned with. But never fear, the chances of them all agreeing are slim.”
His words startled Trent to laughter, which he quickly repressed. They reached the cluster of young women, and Trent wondered at their ages – for all seven of them to be there, the youngest could not be less than fifteen, which would make the eldest over twenty – a highly unusual age for an unmarried woman of good breeding who was possessed of a sizeable dowry. He pushed the consideration aside, as Wildenhall launched into introductions.
“Sisters, allow me to introduce you to the Marquess of Canterford. Canterford, these are my sisters – Lady Lily, Lady Hyacinth, Lady Rose, Lady Camellia, Lady Primrose, Lady Violet and Lady Iris.”
Wildenhall indicated each one as he spoke their name, and Trent dutifully bowed to each. But his mind was a jumble after the very first one – for Lady Lily was the woman whose beauty had so stopped everything around him, when he had sighted her across the room. That he even managed to respond politely to the others astounded him. They each considered him with curious eyes, and he felt self-conscious – how did they perceive him? Did they think him a fortune hunter, or worse? Lady Lily spoke first.
“Lord Canterford – It is a pleasure to see a new face – society can become so dull after a while!”
Her voice was soft, melodious, yet very clear and carrying. A voice which would do equally well with singing, or with conversation, and not tire the ear of the person listening. Lady Hyacinth nodded her agreement.
“A pleasure indeed, my Lord – and a pity that there is not to be dancing this evening, for a new possibility for a dance partner holds great appeal.”
Lady Hyacinth’s voice was sharper, and held an edge of intended cynicism. Her words were bold and forward, yet her smile defused that, and left him wondering if he had imagined the edge to it. Lady Lily cast a glance sideways at her sister, and pursed her lips a moment. So, he was not the only one to detect that edge. He felt the need to respond, and for a moment a desperate fear filled him – he simply was not good at this social banter! But Setford’s face rose in his mind, calmly believing that he, Trent, could do this, and he swallowed.
“A pity indeed, Ladies, although, perhaps, an advantage for me – for should I be called upon to dance with each and every one of you, as of a certainty I would be, for it would be rude to do otherwise – I fear that I might suffer exhaustion by the end of the evening.”
They laughed at his words, and he felt a little better – until he caught Lady Lily’s eye. Her expression told him, quite clearly, that pretty words meant nothing to her, and that, perhaps, his riposte had reduced him in her estimation. He found that an unpalatable realisation – he did not wish to be poorly regarded by Lady Lily.
<<<< O >>>>
Lily was finding the evening surprisingly dull – she had looked forward to it, as a taste of the Season to come, but it was less than thrilling – the same faces, the same conversations, even much the same gossip. Until the moment when her brother appeared beside her, with a man she had never seen before.
When she had suggested that Thorne should introduce her to some eligible men that she had not previously met, she had not expected him to manage to do so – for he had been right in his comment that many of the possibilities, if not all, were rakes and wastrels. Yet here he was, barely a day later, achieving the impossible. The man beside him was tall, with dark, almost mahogany toned glossy hair, undeniably good-looking, yet not ostentatiously so. His attire was elegant, understated, perfectly tailored. But when Thorne introduced him, what caught her attention most was his eyes, which met hers as he bowed over her hand. They were the shade that was often referred to as hazel – a gold-green-brown tone, that seemed to shift with the light. Bright shimmering gold flecks swam in their depths.
For a moment, everything else seemed to fade away – the sounds in the room diminished, and she felt flustered, uncertain. Yet he had done nothing but bow, perfect in his politeness. Then the spell was broken, and he moved on to greeting her sisters, as Thorne introduced each of them. Once the introductions were finished, there was a moment of awkward silence, in which Thorne looked pointedly at Lily. She flushed a little – his meaning was clear – here, as promised, was a new man for her to consider – she should at least attempt to converse with him! But words seemed to have deserted her – what could she say to this man, who so disconcerted her?
“Lord Canterford – It is a pleasure to see a new face – society can become so dull after a while!”
She was horrified at how clumsy her words sounded, but they were spoken. Thorne raised an eyebrow at her, obviously wondering what had caused his normally articulate sister to deliver such a poor conversational opening.
Lord Canterford was obviously uncertain how to respond, and as he hesitated, Hyacinth, in her usual bold manner, spoke up.
“A pleasure indeed, my Lord – and a pity that there is not to be dancing this evening, for a new possibility for a dance partner holds great appeal.”
Lily almost winced, only just managing to stay absolutely still. Why, Hyacinth had, with those words, almost demanded that, at the first opportunity, Lord Canterford ask her to dance! Lily found that the prospect of Lord Canterford dancing with Hyacinth did not please her. Silence fell again, and Lily turned her gaze back to Lord Canterford, curious – what could he possibl
y say in response? And would it be simply polite, or would it be flirting and flattering? Would his words reveal his character to be no different from all of the rest of the unappealing men available to her? An odd expression flitted across his face – one she could not interpret, then he spoke.
“A pity indeed, Ladies, although, perhaps, an advantage for me – for should I be called upon to dance with each and every one of you, as of a certainty I would be – for it would be rude to do otherwise – I fear that I might suffer exhaustion by the end of the evening.”
Lily looked away, her heart sinking. Flattery, almost flirtation. So – he was no different from all of the others. She had hoped… but it seemed not. Thorne would just have to try again. Still, perhaps she should not completely discount Lord Canterford yet – that fleeting expression intrigued her.
They spoke for a little longer, and Lily, later, could not remember a word of what was said, beyond the fact that he was polite even to the youngest of her sisters, who was rather flustered by that fact. Then, as was appropriate, Thorne led Lord Canterford away, moving about the room, introducing him to other guests.
Lily’s eyes followed him – she seemed unable to prevent herself from watching. Once the evening was over, she would have many questions for Thorne – who, really, was Lord Canterford? Why had she never seen him before? What did Thorne think of his character? The compulsion to know all that she could of the man surprised her, and she shook her head in annoyance, dragging her eyes away from him, and turning back to her sisters.
“Taken with him, are you?”
Hyacinth’s tone was sharp, amused, and Lily gritted her teeth a moment before replying sweetly.
“No more than you are, dear sister, if your bold suggestion of dancing is any indicator.”
“Ha! What was I to do, after your terrible conversational beginning? And at least I did not stand there making calf eyes at the man. Still, we must agree – any new man is worth considering, if any of us are ever to find husbands we can stand to spend our lives with.”
Iris and Violet stared at their eldest sisters, their faces a little shocked at the discussion, then turned away, giggling together. The rest of her sisters ignored the whole thing, all but Camellia, whose response was as cheerful and hopeful as always.
“He did seem quite nice, Lily, if rather quiet. Perhaps he is not used to large families. Did you truly like him? It would be wonderful if you did – surely you will find a man worth loving soon.”
“Oh Camellia, you are ever the optimist. We have only just met him – how can I possibly know, yet, if I like him?”
“Well… I rather think that you might know, if he is truly the man for you. Bella says that she knew, from the first moment that she saw Lucian. Even if he took rather a long time to realise…”
Lily laughed lightly – Camellia’s view of love had been coloured by the recent wedding of her best friend, Miss Isabella Morton, who was now the Duchess of Hartswood. But her sister’s words did make her think – there had been that odd moment, when she had first looked into Lord Canterford’s eyes… could that mean anything? She was not sure at all.
And then the thought rose in her mind – even if she did like him, was he a man who could accept her secret?
<<<< O >>>>
Trent felt, as Wildenhall led him across the room, away from the sisters, as if he was waking from a terrifying dream. He could barely remember a word that had been spoken, the swirl of cheerful young women had dazzled and confused him. Having grown up with just one sister, the large family overwhelmed.
What was still clear in his mind was the momentary look of disappointment on Lady Lily’s face, when he had made that reply to her sister, about dancing. What was it that had so displeased her in what he had said? For a moment, it had transported him back to the moments in his childhood, when his father had shaken his head sadly, as if Trent could never measure up to his father’s hopes.
He pushed that thought aside. His father was gone. He was no longer that boy. And by his commitment to the Crown, by accepting the tasks that Lord Setford offered, he had set himself on a path where he had no choice but to succeed, no matter how many people he disappointed in the process. But that look upon her face had hurt. For some reason, her opinion of him mattered – a great deal.
Chapter Three
The key turned in the lock with a click, and Lily turned and leant back against the door with a sigh. Much as she loved her family, there were times when she needed to be alone. Alone to have the peace to think without interruption, and to turn those thoughts to her secret passion.
The morning light through the window lit the surface of her escritoire to a warm gold, drawing out the beauty of the inlaid timber patterns. She smiled and went to it, settling onto the chair, and opening the lid. Carefully, she reached beneath one shelf, to the back of the space, and pushed on a seemingly ordinary part of the wood. Across the centre of the shelves, where what seemed a thick curved band of wood decorated the edge, the whole section popped forward with a tiny sound.
Lily pulled it out further. It was a secret drawer, the full width of the small desk, and two inches deep. Just deep enough to contain her most precious possessions. Neatly set within were six thick journals, bound in unadorned leather, but with paper of the highest quality, and a stack of separate pages.
Three journals were used, the pages all filled with her neat script, although words were crossed out and corrected here and there. The fourth was nearly full, and she lifted it out, her fingers stroking its surface a moment before she opened it. Tomorrow, she would be starting on the fifth, beginning to fill its pages too. But today, she had a task to complete.
Today, she would finish what she thought was to be the final poem needed for the second collected volume of her work. In her imagination, she could already see the slim volume that would result, bound in a rich dark blue leather, and embossed in gold. The only thing that spoiled her pleasure in the thought was the author’s name that would be embossed on that surface. For it would show Mr L Brooks.
A lady of the ton did not do anything so common as having her work published and available to the masses. For that matter, a woman of any class would be unlikely to be published, should it be known that she was a woman – her work would, most likely, not be taken seriously. Lily had not let that stop her. She had simply taken on the male pseudonym, and always corresponded with the publisher in letters written in a different hand from her own – a hand she had practised for hours, to ensure that she could consistently write in that style, when needed.
She had been delighted when Frockmorton and Thackery had accepted her submission, and agreed to publish ‘Mr Brooks’ work. The most tedious part of it all was writing out her finished poems in Mr Brooks’ hand, when the time came to send them to the publisher. But seeing the volume of her work on the shelves of Bigglesworth’s Books, when it was released next month, would be worth it all. And soon, a second volume would join the first.
She turned her attention to the page before her, where the unfinished poem waited. Reading it through again, from the start, she nibbled at her lip in concentration, then crossed and replaced a few words in one line. Satisfied, she began to write – overnight, the final stanza had formed in her mind, and the words flowed onto the page easily.
An hour later, she laid the pen aside, and stretched her hand. It was done. She would leave it a few minutes, then read the whole poem through again, to ensure that nothing more needed adjusting. She stood, and walked to her window. Below, the sun had melted the last of the light dusting of snow that had fallen overnight – perhaps the last snow for the year – at least she hoped so. The garden was still mostly bare, but the buds of leaves could be seen on the trees – spring was not far off.
She went back to the desk, and read her work through. Nothing needed changing. She drew out two sheets of clean paper from her drawer, and set her mind to being Mr Brooks. On the first sheet, she carefully copied out the poem, in Mr Brooks’ hand, then adde
d it to the pile in the drawer, where the rest of the poems for this volume waited.
On the second sheet, she penned a letter to Mr Edmunds of Frockmorton and Thackery, informing him that the poems for the second volume were ready, and asking that he confirm the terms of their agreement, at which time ‘Mr Brooks’ would send him the manuscript. She signed it, with Mr Brooks’ signature, and set it aside for the ink to dry.
From the drawer she lifted out the seal – a single, simply shaped ‘B’, and set it ready with the sealing wax. The seal was a mystery – it had been the only thing in the secret drawer, when she had first discovered it.
Soon, the letter was folded, sealed, and then wrapped in another sheet of older paper, and Frockmorton and Thackery’s direction written upon it. Lily tucked it into the pockets of her day dress and, after replacing the journal and all other evidence of her work in the drawer, slid it shut so that her desk was once again ordinary. She unlocked the door and slipped down the stairs and out through the garden to the stables.
The crisp cold air was refreshing, after hours spent closed in her room, and she smiled, amused at herself, at the subterfuge she was willing to go to, to see her poems published. Most days, she went to the stables, to ride, or to at least speak to Posy, her spirited mare – so no one thought anything of her visit there today.
The warm, horse and leather scented space closed around her, and she went to the mare’s stall. Moments later, as she stood there, a stable boy approached her.
“Good morning, Lady Lily – might you need anything done today?”
“I do, Tom.” She slipped the letter from her pocket, and passed it to him, with a coin, making sure that no one saw. “You know what to do, thank you.”
The boy grinned, the letter disappeared into his rough clothing, and he nodded.
A Spinster for a Spy: Book 1: Lily - Clean Regency Romance (A Duke's Daughters: The Elbury Bouquet) Page 2