<<<< O >>>>
The card room had become stifling – mentally and physically. The crowd of men made the room stuffy, the heat from the fire adding to the effect. But far worse was the mental impact of listening to their conversations. He needed to do so, at least some of the time, to fulfil Lord Setford’s requirements, but the longer he stayed in that room, the harder it became.
It reminded him of why he had avoided social events so much, for so long. They were, in the main, boorish, opinionated, and arrogant. They disparaged others freely, especially the women of the ton, yet they expected to be valued and listened to. It was not a way of thinking that he could relate to.
Perhaps his experience of his father’s disparaging attitude had made him so determined not to do that to others, or perhaps, he hoped, he was simply an intelligent enough man to realise that he was not the centre of everything. After leaning against the wall, and listening to an hour or more of a conversation in which every female present in the ballroom was evaluated, much as if assessing horses in the sales ring at Tattersall’s, for their appearance, their dowries, and the connections that they might bring to a marriage, he felt sickened. For, not once in the entire conversation had any man spoken of the intelligence or skills of any of the women – beyond less than subtle implications about what they might be like to bed.
Trent pushed himself away from the wall, and determined to return to the ballroom, and seek better conversation – and perhaps, if luck was with him, to seek a chance to dance with Lady Lily. He opened the door, and stepped into the hall.
As he did so, he barely avoided stepping on the hem of a lady’s dress, as she passed the door going rapidly towards the ballroom. He pulled the door closed behind him, and stood, staring. It was Lady Lily who rushed along the hall so precipitously. Why? It seemed as if something pursued her, yet nothing did. Her reticule dangled from her wrist, swinging with the speed of her movement, and, as he watched, it bumped into the corner of a side table upon which a flower arrangement rested.
He blinked in the fairly dim light of the hall, where only a few sconces held lit candles. Something caught his eye – an object had fallen from that reticule – or perhaps from the table it had bumped – but no, he was sure that it had come from her reticule. Something small, but definitely something, he was certain. Lady Lily did not pause, and he continued to stand, watching her retreating figure, struck again by her unaffected beauty. The candlelight sparked glints from her hair, and he felt a desperate urge to race after her, to pull her into his arms, to sink his fingers into that beautiful hair, to kiss her senseless.
Irritated, he shook his head – obviously, the conversation which he had just been forced to endure had unhinged his thinking. Once she was gone from the hall, he stepped forward, and bent down to retrieve the object that had fallen as she passed. It was a very small roll of paper, tied with a red ribbon. Most interesting! Immediately his thoughts raced – if this had fallen from her reticule, what was it? A note from a suitor? Or, far more worrisome, a note from a conspirator of some kind?
His return to the ballroom would have to wait, at least a short while, no matter how much he wanted to follow her.
He went the other way down the hallway, until he found a door which stood slightly ajar – he eased it open, and found himself in a small study, with a desk, a chair, and a cupboard, as well as bookshelves. He closed the door behind him, and half sat on the edge of the desk. Slowly, he untied the ribbon, and unrolled the paper. Part of him wished desperately that it did not exist, that he might cast it away and pretend that he had never seen it fall from Lady Lily’s reticule – but a larger part of him needed to know what it held, and what that might contribute to his knowledge of the suspicious correspondence from Elbury House.
A trace of Lady Lily’s distinctive scent drifted around him – from the paper, no doubt – and for a moment he saw again, in his mind, that image of pulling her to him, of kissing her, then he pushed it aside and unfolded the last fold of the paper in his hand. In handwriting which he recognised as that of Lady Lily, which he had seen on invitations, words spilled across the page, as if written hurriedly, with little splashes of ink around them in places. It was a poem.
He swallowed, his throat feeling tight. That fact alone would seem to suggest that his conclusion, that Lady Lily was, in fact, the elusive Mr L Brooks, was correct – but only reading it would confirm whether the style matched that of Mr Brooks. He moved, and stood directly beneath the candle that guttered towards burning out in the wall sconce, so that he had light enough to read the words. Within three lines, he was quite certain that this work had come from the same mind as the poems found in Mr L Brooks ‘Reflections on Living’. The feel was unmistakeable, the technical skill undeniable. It drew him in, instantly. There was one stark difference from the earlier works – this one was about love.
The words flowed from joyous to despairing, from happiness to poignant loss, and he felt his own heart respond, felt a deep affinity with the emotions presented. It left him almost shaking with the intensity of it.
She had written this – there was no doubt about that – but what did it mean? Was it just a poem? He dearly wished so – but what if it was more, what if his original suspicions had been right, and some code or other thing was embedded in this. The thought was unbearable. If it was simply a poem, then why here? If her identity as Mr L Brooks, poet, was so secret as to warrant clandestine correspondence and more, why would she risk carrying a poem with her to a Ball?
None of it made any more sense now than it had before. But it left him with an even greater need to know the truth. There seemed no choice now, but to confront Lady Lily about it – with the evidence of the paper he held in his hand, she would not be able to deny it – and perhaps she might then tell him enough for him to finally understand, to rest more easily, to lose the perpetual fear that underhanded dealings might take her from him.
That thought startled him – she was not his, so could not be taken from him – but oh, how he wished that she was his. Far more so now, he realised, that he had read this poem – for it was as if she spoke directly to him, of him, as if his heart’s yearnings had been poured out onto that page. And that thought led him to another question – who had she written it about / for?
<<<< O >>>>
Lily smiled, and allowed her brother to lead her into a dance.
As they came together each time in the pattern Thorne spoke to her, as he always did, half teasing, half serious.
“So, where did you escape to, sister dear?”
Lily kept her expression as bland as possible.
“After dancing with Lord Wiltingham, I felt the need to hide from everyone for a short while – he is so… grating… - so Bella showed me to her old study, so that I could recover in peace.”
The dance spun them apart again, as Thorne laughed softly.
“I can sympathise Lily, I find the man unbearable company too. But is there no one else here that you find more tolerable? Canterford, perhaps?”
Lily blushed, annoyed with herself for doing so.
“Is he here – I have not seen him?”
“He is. So perhaps you will dance with him again.” Lily said nothing, turning around the next couple as the dance required, and Thorne continued when the dance brought him to face her again. “Do not worry, I will not tease you further tonight – for I spy the possibility of teasing Hyacinth instead. Did you notice who she is dancing with? And the way that she is looking at him? For Hyacinth, that is a startling expression indeed.”
Lily looked along the line of dancers – Hyacinth was at the far end, dancing with Lord Kevin Loughbridge – the Duchess of Melton’s brother. Lily had met him only once before, and she did not think that Hyacinth had seen him before this very night. But she gazed at the man with what Lily could only describe as adoration.
Chapter Nine
When Trent returned to the ballroom, with the poem folded, rolled, and retied with its ribbon, and tucked
deep within the narrow pocket of his jacket tail, Lady Lily was dancing with her brother – that was far easier for him to see, than had been her dancing with Wiltingham. He waited until the dance completed, and she had rejoined the rest of her family, before moving in that direction. There was only one dance to run, before supper, and he thought it probable that she would be spoken for, but he had to ask – he could not bear the thought of the evening passing without a chance to dance with her, to talk to her – and perhaps, somehow, to get her alone long enough to ask about the poem.
“Good evening, Lady Lily.”
He bowed, and her eyes met his as he rose. They were warm, welcoming, and his heart gave the oddest little flip within his chest.
“Good evening, Lord Canterford – I did not realise that you were here.”
Her words sounded almost admonishing, and he wondered at the tone.
“I did arrive rather later than usual, my Lady. Might I… might I hope that you still have a dance available?”
She blushed, and glanced away for a moment. He wondered why.
“Lord Canterford, you appear to have a talent for asking me to dance when I have but one space left on my dance card. This evening, that space is the next dance.”
Trent maintained his careful smile, but the thought flitted through his mind – how was that possible, with a woman as popular as Lady Lily? Unless… she had kept it available, for him… It was a wonderful thought, one which he wished to believe, but he chided himself for foolish imaginings as he offered her his arm.
It was a waltz, again, and that small core of warmth, which the thought of her saving the dance for him had created, grew larger. Did she want to be held in his arms as much as he wanted to hold her? Was the poem, that even now seemed an enormous weight in his pocket, actually written for him?
The thought of the poem steadied him – brought him back to the cold reality of the fact that he still did not know the truth of her, or of that clandestine correspondence. The determination to ask her about it, outright, filled him – somehow, he would manage it.
Then the music swept him away, the feel and scent of her so close was intoxicating, and he allowed himself to forget the poem, even if only for the duration of the dance.
They barely spoke as they danced, yet the silence was comfortable, comforting – a silence of closeness that needed nothing more. Then the music ended, and the magic departed, the noise of the crowded room rushing back into his awareness. He led her from the floor, and in to supper.
They spoke again, quietly, and he could not resist sending the discussion back to books, and poetry, as he had once before. She seemed ill at ease with the topic, even though she most obviously was able to speak upon such things with intelligence and authority. It was, he thought, yet further confirmation that his suspicions were correct.
“Of late, Lady Lily, I have found myself more and more enamoured of poetry – not writing it, for I have not the advantage of that skill, but reading it. I have been seeking out new poets to read, for I must say that I find those who are best known, and most lauded, to be rather boring after a while. I seek new voices, poets with different insights on the world – are there any less well-known poets whom you would recommend?”
She held his gaze a moment, then turned away, appearing slightly flustered.
“I cannot say, my Lord. For whilst I have read widely, I find that poetry is such a thing of personal taste, I fear that what appeals to me might not, in any way, appeal to a gentleman.”
She was clever with her words, in conversation, as well as on the page, it seemed.
“My Lady, in many cases I believe that you have the right of it, but… I dare to hope that I am perhaps a far more discerning reader than most gentlemen of my acquaintance.”
She lifted her eyes to his again. He could have drowned in their green-gold depths. She searched his face, as if seeking to see if he dissembled, if he truly meant his words. He stilled, feeling the weight of her judgement heavy on his heart – he wanted her to trust his words, to trust him. After a further moment, she gave the tiniest of nods.
“Perhaps that is the case, my Lord, for I must admit that I have never conversed on the subject of books and poetry with any other gentleman, save my brother. But still, I do not feel that I can be so daring as to suggest a volume to you, for one’s taste in poetry is such a very personal thing.”
He accepted the response, and took a sip of his drink, wondering how he might drive the conversation further, towards the question that he needed to ask. The pink in her cheeks grew more heated under his regard, and, as she set aside her plate and glass, he saw the opportunity he sought.
“You seem flushed, Lady Lily – perhaps a walk on the terrace might be refreshing, after the heat of these crowded rooms?”
Her eyes snapped to his, and again, it seemed that she judged him, judged the intent behind the suggestion – did she think him some kind of libertine, attempting to lure her to the gardens for seduction? He remained impassively still, until the tension left her shoulders.
“I believe that would be pleasant, my Lord.”
He rose, and offered her his arm. She placed her hand upon it, and the heat of that touch seared through to his soul. He held himself steady despite the intensity of the sensation, and led her from the room, through the terrace doors, and into the soft spring evening.
Only one other couple had chosen to venture out of the ballroom – and they stood at the farthest end of the terrace, beyond the range of hearing, if one spoke softly – it gave Trent and Lady Lily at least the illusion of privacy, without being scandalous. She looked out over the gardens, which were silvered by the early moonlight, and sighed, as if leaving the supper room had been a relief indeed. He feared that he was about to make that relief short lived.
What he was about to do might be the most foolish thing that he had ever done in his life – for to challenge the woman he cared for so much about the poem might make her reject his company hereafter – yet he had to know the truth. He respected her too much to continue to pretend that he knew nothing, when, in truth, the fact that she was a published poet, and that she had achieved that, all in secret, made him view her with even greater regard. Carefully, he reached into his coattail pocket, and withdrew the poem. She did not notice, for her gaze was fixed upon the moon – was she composing poetry in her mind? He would not be at all surprised should that be the case. He cleared his throat, filled with both fear and determination, and she turned towards him. He wanted to kiss her. He could not permit himself to.
“Lady Lily, I find that I must ask you a most impertinent question.”
She started, as if those words were the furthest thing from what she had expected – perhaps they were, for they were certainly the furthest thing from what he wished to be saying.
“A question, my Lord? About what, pray tell? For I cannot imagine what I might inform you on – unless, of course, you are determined to pursue our conversation on poetry?”
“Not exactly, my Lady. Although this question does indeed, have a poem at its heart.”
His own heart thundered as he spoke, remembering the words of that poem all too well. Something flitted across her face, some emotion which he did not understand, then she smoothed her expression.
“A poem at its heart? I do not understand, my Lord.”
He lifted his hand, the small rolled poem in it, and opened his palm, letting the unassuming piece of paper, tied with ribbon, lie there. The light filtering through from the ballroom lit it gently, the red ribbon seeming a pool of blood on his skin. She gasped, quickly repressing the sound, and her fingers went to her reticule. When they did not encounter the expected shape, she stilled utterly, her eyes wide, and haunted, as if something terrifying lay before her.
“This, Lady Lily, I believe to be yours. Not just your possession, but your work, for I confess that I have read its contents, and recognised the hand as yours.”
Her lashes fluttered, shielding her gaze, and her breat
h came unevenly. He waited.
“I do not know what you speak of, my Lord.”
“Oh, I think that you do, but that you are afraid to admit it. For I also recognise the style of this poem, the quality of the writing, the exquisite technical skill of the poet. And those things mark it as the work of one Mr L Brooks, a recently published poet of growing renown. The only conclusion that I can draw from those facts, is that you, Lady Lily Gardenbrook, write secretly under that pseudonym.”
For a moment, panic filled her lovely face. Then her expression settled into a bland public face, as if a shutter had been drawn across a window. Again, he waited – would she admit it?
“My Lord, I do not know what you speak of – are you confused in your wits, to think that I, a lady of the ton, might do such a thing? How ridiculous!”
He sighed softly – so be it. It seemed that he would need to find better proof before she would admit anything. Her eyes stayed locked upon the tiny paper roll on his hand, even as she went to turn away, stiffness and rejection in every line of her body. He reached out his other hand to halt her, taking her own hand in his. She allowed it, her eyes clouded with confusion. He turned her hand over, and dropped that incriminating poem into it, then closed her fingers around it, and released her.
She stayed but a moment, as if want and sense battled within her, then she tightened her fingers on the poem, and swept back into the ballroom, leaving him standing, bereft, in the moonlight.
<<<< O >>>>
When he had asked her to dance, she’d had the terrible suspicion that he had known, somehow, that she had kept the waltz for him. It was an embarrassing thought, yet she could not regret it – for the dance had been wonderful. The conversation over supper had been less so.
She had felt trapped, being asked to hold forth on her favourite topic, yet unable to do so, for fear of revealing too much. The price of a secret life was high.
A Spinster for a Spy: Book 1: Lily - Clean Regency Romance (A Duke's Daughters: The Elbury Bouquet) Page 7