She sighed as she contemplated the poem before her. It was barely begun – the page boasted but a line or two, but the rest simply would not come. Sometimes that happened, and she knew that, in the depths of her mind, the rest was growing, that it would burst forth into her consciousness, probably at the most inconvenient time, when it was ready. She closed the journal, and returned the escritoire to its innocent appearance.
Her thoughts turned then, as they inevitably did of late, to the prospect of the coming evening. Tonight, there was to be a Ball at Porthaven House, the home of the Earl of Porthaven, and she was quite certain that Lord Canterford would be in attendance – he was, it seemed, at every event that anyone of significance hosted. She allowed herself to daydream, to imagine herself in his arms, dancing. But in her daydream, they danced a waltz, a waltz from which he swirled her through the doors of an imaginary ballroom, and out onto a terrace in the moonlight, where they spun to a stop. In her dream, he did not release her then, but pulled her even closer, and brought his lips down to hers in a kiss both delicate and passionate.
A tap on her door broke her reverie, and she started, almost guiltily, feeling flushed and overheated. She chided herself for foolishness, and rose, going to the door.
She turned the key, and opened the door, praying that her cheeks were not so heated as to make her flustered condition obvious, and also praying that, of all the possible people, it was not Hyacinth at her door – for Hyacinth would be merciless in her teasing should she discover any hint of Lily’s daydreams. Camellia stood before her, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Lily, there are flowers for you, again.”
“Flowers? From whom?”
“Lord Wiltingham,” Lily winced as Camellia spoke the name, “and Lord Canterford.”
Lily’s heart skipped a beat – Lord Canterford had sent her flowers? A shiver ran through her, of delight, and of fear – fear that things were out of her control, that her interest in Lord Canterford might be strongly returned, and that all of her secrets might be at risk. Camellia watched her, obviously waiting for a response of some kind. Lily composed herself, with an effort.
“My, what a contrast! And what are these flowers like?”
Camellia laughed.
“Remarkably like their senders, Lily. The ones from Lord Wiltingham are of a garish variety of types and colours, presented in a huge arrangement, which can only be described as rather lacking in elegance. The ones from Lord Canterford are rather delightful – a composition primarily of roses, in subtle shades of red and cream, shaped into an elegant curl of blossoms surrounding a branch of greenery. I do believe that the flowers gentlemen send are a reflection of their character, don’t you?”
Lily blinked, and laughter overtook her at Camellia’s description – for she was right – those arrangements did sound very much a reflection of their senders. And the image created in her mind, of Lord Wiltingham as an overblown multicoloured pile of mismatched petals was hilarious. She choked words out, finally.
“I suspect that I agree with you. But before I confirm that, I had best see these arrangements – for your description of Lord Wiltingham’s offering is so fantastical that I can barely believe it.”
She linked arms with Camellia, and went down to the parlour, suddenly feeling far happier than she had been earlier. He had sent her flowers! No matter what they looked like, she vowed to like them, simply because they had come from him.
In the end, liking them took no effort whatsoever, for they were as Camellia had described – subtle, elegant, and gloriously perfumed – an arrangement which added to the look of the parlour perfectly. Unfortunately, that effect was spoiled by the presence of Lord Wiltingham’s contribution – which was a monstrosity. Lily studied it, as all of her sisters watched her. Eventually Camellia spoke.
“See Lily, it is as I said.”
“It is, unfortunately. Whatever shall we do with it? I simply cannot bear to keep it here, to have to look upon its garish and tasteless display.”
Hyacinth snorted.
“Your description of that… thing… is too kind. But… if you consider the individual blooms, each is rather nice.”
“Did you notice,” Violet spoke hesitantly, “that we are all represented? For there are the flowers in that, for all of our names. It’s an Elbury bouquet. I suspect that the odious man thought he was being clever.”
“You are right. How very crass of him, when sending the arrangement to Lily.” Hyacinth looked thoughtfully at the thing again. “Perhaps the best use for it would be to let Mrs Hamley take it apart, and make new arrangements out of the flowers – one for each of us, with only our own flower in it. That way, we can enjoy the beauty of the blooms, without needing to look at this ghastly arrangement.”
Lily looked at her sister, and smiled.
“What a wonderful idea, Hyacinth! Let us do just that.”
Once the housekeeper had been summoned, and the idea explained, she called a footman to carry the thing off to the servants’ parlour, and all of the sisters breathed a sigh of relief as it was removed. The room felt better already.
Lily studied the elegant roses. Camellia was right – they were a reflection of the character and style of the man who had sent them. The man she hoped to dance with, again, that very night.
<<<< O >>>>
As Farrell dressed him for the evening, Trent struggled to stay still, to not ruin the perfectly crafted cravat that Farrell was tying about his neck. He was nervous – more so than he had been in years. Had he been a complete fool? Whatever had possessed him to send her flowers? It had been an impulse of the moment. He had been to see Setford, at Bigglesworth’s Books, and looked into the florist’s window next door.
The roses had reminded him of the deep pink of her lips, of the blushes that rose to her cheeks, and of the perfect cream of her skin. He had walked into the shop, and ordered an arrangement on the spot, not allowing himself to think further on the matter. The man had tried to sell him some opulent confection of an arrangement, overblown and cluttered, but he had refused – he had insisted on simple elegance, somehow certain that Lady Lily would prefer that.
But ever since, doubt had gnawed at him. He had never before sent a woman flowers. What if she did not like them? What if she took them as a sign that he intended to court her? (Did he? whispered that internal voice, and he ignored it) He would, he was quite certain, see her that night, at the Earl of Porthaven’s Ball – for the Gardenbrook sisters were most friendly with the Earl’s sister. Until the moment that he met her eyes, and saw the indication of her reactions in her face, he would be on edge.
It was madness – for he still did not know the truth of the secret correspondence, of whether she lived a double life, as a poet called Mr L Brooks. But he was beginning to discover that he did not care what the truth was, that what mattered to him was Lady Lily, and being in her presence. Lord Setford, he thought, was likely about to be disappointed in him.
Farrell finished the cravat, and allowed Trent to move – at least as far as was needed to get into his evening coat – a coat so finely tailored to fit that it required Farrell’s assistance to get it on. When that was done, and he had collected hat and gloves, he went down the stairs, towards his waiting carriage. All the way to Porthaven House, Lady Lily was never far from his thoughts.
As the carriage rumbled over the cobbles, he permitted himself to believe that she would be pleased with the flowers, that she would not reject him. But he could not be certain, and the nervousness remained.
Chapter Eight
Lily winced. Lord Wiltingham stood before her, his clothing equally as vibrant and tasteless as the flower arrangement that he had sent her. He bowed over her hand, and looked at her in a manner that reminded her of a hopeful puppy – when had the self-centred man come to regard her that way?
“Lady Lily, it is wonderful to see you – you look, if I may say so, more beautiful than ever.”
“Lord Wiltingham, you flatter m
e.”
“No, no, I speak only the very truth, my Lady.” When Lily said nothing further (for, in truth, she was lost for what to say to the man), he hesitated a moment, then went on. “Might I hope that you found my small floral offering pleasing, my Lady?”
How rude of him! that he should presume to ask, when Lily had not mentioned it, was in poor taste indeed. And now she needed a way to answer the man!
“The blooms were indeed each very beautiful, my Lord.”
It was the literal truth, and Lily was rather proud of herself for finding a way to respond, which did not involve telling him what she had thought of the arrangement as a whole. It was obvious that he was not a man who considered words and phrasing carefully, for he beamed at her, pleased. She repressed a shudder.
“Might I also hope for the pleasure of a dance with you this evening, my Lady?”
There it was, the question that she had dreaded above all others. There was nothing for it – she would have to dance with him – for not all of the evening’s dances were spoken for yet, even though she had written Lord Canterford in for the dance before supper – which was to be a waltz again, as seemed to be becoming customary. Doing so was rather bold of her, but she could not, now, imagine him attending an evening without asking to dance with her. And she would far rather dance with Lord Canterford than any other man.
She looked at Lord Wiltingham. Best to get it over with.
“You might, my Lord. This next dance is not yet spoken for, it seems.”
His eyes lit up, and Lily gritted her teeth, and placed her hand upon his offered arm. At least, she thought as they moved to the floor, the dance was one of the most bouncy and active country dances, with very little touching of partners. Part of her wickedly wondered if Lord Wiltingham was in suitable physical condition to manage such a dance without coming to a gasping halt. She would find out.
<<<< O >>>>
Trent entered the ballroom, glad that he had chosen to arrive rather late – it had been easier to deal with his nervousness without having to watch Lady Lily surrounded by other men – men who most likely had also sent her flowers. The small orchestra were situated on a raised dais which filled one corner of the room, and before them, the floor was occupied by a line of ladies and gentlemen, just launching into a dance.
The music was light, energetic, and well played, and the dancers moved with an energy which would surely fade by the end of the evening. He scanned them, as he scanned every person in any room that he entered now, seeing who was here, who danced with whom, and what might be inferred from that. Instantly, his jaw clenched. Lady Lily was amongst the dancers, beautiful as always, her golden hair glittering with the gems that adorned the pins which held it in place. But the man she danced with was Wiltingham – a preening peacock with barely an intelligent thought in his head.
Trent discovered, in that instant, that he did not, at all, enjoy the sight of Lady Lily dancing with another man, especially that one. Part of him wanted to rush to the floor, to take her hand and dance with her, to shove Wiltingham aside unceremoniously. Which, of course, he could not do. He had no claim on Lady Lily, she was perfectly at liberty to dance with whoever she wished to – no matter how obnoxious an individual they might be.
He turned away, unable to keep watching. He would greet her, and her family, later – for now, the card room would be a better option, where he might hear the gossip of men, and prevent himself from acting foolishly. He would simply have to wait a little longer, to discover if she had liked the flowers.
<<<< O >>>>
Lily managed to get through the dance without losing the false smile on her face. Lord Wiltingham was, indeed, rather out of breath by the end of it, but did not, rather to Lily’s disappointment, collapse from exhaustion. All the while that they danced, she had distracted herself by thinking about her poetry – about that stubborn poem which still refused to go beyond the second line.
As he escorted her back to her family, an idea came to her – the words began to form in her mind, and she knew, in an instant, what the poem would be like, what lines came next, and more. She needed to write it down, before it escaped her. The inconvenience of it was astounding – what a time for inspiration to strike! Perhaps, if she could find Bella, she might be allowed to use a room here, with pen and paper, for a short while?
She glanced around the room, barely noticing as Lord Wiltingham left her, simply acknowledging him absently – which left him looking quite disappointed. She had not seen Lord Canterford yet either – a fact which left her with a little ache inside her – an ache that she ignored, and refused to consider too closely. Finally, she spotted Bella, on the other side of the room – as always, not too far from her husband, for they had only been married a few short months, and were quite besotted with each other. Lily turned to her mother.
“I am going to speak with Bella, Mother.”
She indicated Bella with her hand, and her mother nodded, then turned back to her conversation as Lily slipped away. The words of the poem beat at her mind, incessantly, aggressively, demanding to be put on paper.
When she reached Bella, she was greeted with friendly curiosity – for Bella was more Camellia’s friend than Lily’s. Lily smiled, and spoke to her, very quietly.
“Good evening Bella, Your Grace… I am not yet used to calling you that!... I… I have a request, if you can see your way to assist me?”
“Dear me, Lily, there is no need to be formal – I doubt that I shall ever get used to being ‘Your Grace’, and I certainly see no reason for friends to call me so in most situations. What can I help with? For I will most certainly do whatever I can.”
“I… I find myself in need of a quiet room, paper, and pen and ink, if such can be arranged?”
“Interesting…” Bella’s eyes sparkled with mischief, “what could you need to write, in the middle of a Ball? Letters to a secret lover? But I shan’t ask – your secrets are your own. Come with me – there is a small study on this floor, that I used to use – I don’t think anyone in particular uses it now.”
“Thank you!”
Lily followed Bella from the room, down a long hallway, past the card room, where men’s voices could be heard in deep discussion. For a moment, she thought that she had heard Lord Canterford’s voice – but surely not, that must be her wishful thinking, for she had never seen him go near a card room at a Ball or soiree. They moved on, and stopped at a door just around a bend in the hall. Bella tapped once, and opened it. The room inside was empty, the fire unlit, but a few candles had been set in the sconces – obviously in case someone needed the room. They stepped inside and closed the door.
“Oh! Did I really leave it this messy? I must have. But then, I was rather… in a hurry, to move to my new life with Lucian…. Give me a moment, and I will clear the desk, and find what you need.” Bella was always rather bright and energetic – Lily simply stood and watched as she swept things away, shutting them into drawers and cupboards with the certainty of someone long used to the room – as she should be, for the Earl of Porthaven was her brother, and she had lived here for some time before her marriage. Finally, she opened a part of the desk, and drew out pen, sealed ink pot, and two sheets of highest quality paper. “There you are. Oh, a moment!” She turned again, and produced from the cupboard a box of the fine sand used to dry ink faster. “That should be all that you need. Feel free to stay here as long as you like.”
With that, she swept from the room, leaving Lily alone.
Lily settled into the chair at the desk. It felt odd to be at any desk but her own, odd to be even considering writing poetry somewhere without a locked door between her and the world, and yet, what could she do – the words pounded in her mind, demanding to be written. She drew the paper to her, uncapped the ink pot, and dipped the pen – everything else ceased to exist, everything but the words, which flowed onto the page effortlessly. It took only a short time, for it was as if the words were dictated to her, so clear were they, so sure,
and she knew that this would need very little, if any, editing later.
Dimly, as she wrote, she was aware of the content, from a more critical viewpoint – it was another love poem, a poem which, if she were to admit the truth of it, was about Lord Canterford, and how she perceived him. It revealed far too much of her heart, yet she had no choice but to write it.
Once the words had stopped flowing, she scattered the sand over the pages, watching the ink dry and the words darken. She felt lighter, relieved, yet frightened too. For now, she had to fold or roll the paper up, and squeeze it into her tiny reticule, and pray that no-one discovered it, that she could keep it safe, until she was home, and could lock it away in her escritoire. Finally, the ink was dry enough, and she carefully shook the darkened sand off the pages, letting it fall into the dust of ashes in the cold fireplace.
She read the words through again – they were true, they were right, and they laid her heart bare, but she could not regret writing them. Carefully, she folded the paper in half, and rolled it into the smallest roll she could manage. She had no sealing wax to seal it tight, and she looked about, seeking some other option. Perhaps, in the cupboard, where Bella had so casually dumped all of the clutter she had cleared from the desk?
She opened the cupboard door. At first, there seemed nothing useful – then her eye was caught by a tiny burst of colour. Under the jumble of papers and journals, the end of a thin ribbon could just be seen. It was red, glowingly so. Lily reached out, and tugged on it. It slid forth – a piece barely a foot long – but that was long enough for what she needed.
As she tied it about the rolled poem, she idly wondered what it had been used for, before. She would never know, but she was glad that she had found it. The rolled poem went into her reticule – barely – the end stuck out a little. But she could not make it any smaller – she would simply have to hope that no-one noticed. Satisfied, she stood, and went to the door. Carefully, she slipped out into the hall, and turned towards the ballroom. Perhaps Lord Canterford had arrived by now?
A Spinster for a Spy: Book 1: Lily - Clean Regency Romance (A Duke's Daughters: The Elbury Bouquet) Page 6