Emily smiled. “Who knows? Now that the war is over, it’s possible to travel across the Channel.”
“Yes.” She sat straighter. “Surely he must know how many people adore his poetry, and he will journey to London. Have you ever imagined what he must be like?”
“Not often.”
She let Valeria prattle while she fought not to laugh. She must not let slip that the marquis was neither tall nor well favored with a manly air. Valeria was as enthralled with the mysterious marquis as with his poetry.
Taking a sip of tea, she quelled a shudder. The marquis would never appear in London. That would destroy Miriam’s chances for a first-rate marriage. She sighed. The noose of truth was tightening, but the furor would die down again once something else caught the élite’s attention.
“Yes, I like the marquis’s poetry,” Emily said when her friend paused to take a breath, “but I prefer Byron’s.”
“Bah! Even Byron doesn’t have the romantic magic of this Frenchman.” Valeria’s eyes brightened. “I have just the jolly. I shall host a poetry reading tomorrow evening.” She clapped her hands with pleasure. “What fun it shall be! We will enjoy the marquis’s newest poems and our favorites from Byron. You and Miriam and your dear father will come, won’t you?”
“I’m not sure of Papa’s plans.” Emily tried to devise a reason to refuse. The idea of sitting all evening while others lauded the poetry would be nearly as disturbing as Lord Wentworth’s insults to her work.
She almost gasped as the viscount’s image appeared in her head yet again. Since his call, she had been successful at keeping the handsome man from her thoughts. Her father had remained mute about his encounters with the viscount, and she had not pressed.
“You will come, won’t you?” Valeria asked again.
“Of course.” Emily’s smile grew more sincere as she said with a wryness her friend would not be able to appreciate, “This may prove to be the most unforgettable party you have ever given.”
Chapter Five
Emily needed have no concerns about her sister’s interest in attending the reading. Once Miriam discovered Mr. Simpkins had been invited, she was aglow. Emily could not comprehend her sister’s interest a man who seldom spoke to her. Every morning, Miriam scanned the newspaper, searching for any word of Graham Simpkins. If she found his name connected to another woman’s, she was bereft.
Emily kept her curiosity about Miriam’s heart to herself as they entered the Fanning home. She smiled a greeting to Valeria, who embraced her warmly. Valeria’s gown of brilliant blue would challenge a midsummer sky. With gems glittering on her fingers and pearls laced through her hair, which had a tendency to appear orange in this light, she could be found by any of her guests.
“What a lovely gown!” Valeria said, clearly not noticing how Emily’s hands clenched her fringed shawl. “Is it one of Madame Girouard’s?”
“Yes, I own to being enchanted with the material when I saw it at her shop,” Emily answered, her voice as taut as her fingers. Tonight she would as lief think of the color which was not truly pink nor deep enough to be mauve than the idea that soon people would be reading her poetry aloud.
“No one designs as well as Madame Girouard. I am grateful you introduced me to her.” A frown ruffled her brow. “She’s been asking for you as if you no longer patronized her shop.”
“You know how she loves to prattle.” She did not want to reveal that she had not visited the couturière in months. She had no need to worry, for Valeria’s—and Miriam’s—attention was taken by the arrival of Graham Simpkins.
His cravat looked as if he needed help with tying it as much as Papa did. With his gaze affixed firmly on his feet, he edged through the crowd.
Emily whispered, “Miriam, do not stare.”
“But he is so—” Her retort ended in a low moan as Mr. Simpkins paused in front of Valeria and captured their hostess’s hands.
“My dear Valeria,” he said, “I should have guessed you would be the first to celebrate the new poetry by Marquis de la Cour! Allow me.” Offering his arm, he led her into the parlor.
Miriam gave a half-sob.
“Miriam, I am sure he wishes only to—”
“You need not be kind. He acted as if he did not even see me. It is obvious Mr. Simpkins cares as little for me as you do for Mr. Colley.”
“You know Valeria has no interest in him.”
Miriam’s eyes filled with cobalt tears. “She has him hanging on her every look, and she doesn’t want him?” She hurried up the sharply turning stairs to where she could pipe her eyes in a secluded bedroom.
About to follow, Emily halted when she heard, “What a pleasure to see you again so soon, Miss Talcott!”
Emily turned, for she recognized Lord Wentworth’s voice. Why had Valeria invited him? Emily had been certain her friend believed Lord Wentworth was beneath her touch.
She glanced toward the stairs, but Miriam needed time to regain control of her ragged emotions. Before going to her sister, she was determined to obtain an explanation why the viscount had lied to her.
“Good evening, my lord,” Emily answered as Lord Wentworth motioned for her to precede him into the parlor which was brilliantly lit by the crystal chandelier in the center of the expansive ceiling. “I own a tremendous amazement at seeing you here. Could you have had a change of heart about poetry? Does this drivel bring you something other than ennui?”
He handed her a glass of champagne before selecting one for himself. “You misunderstood. I do not find all poetry drivel. Only the poems penned by Marquis de la Cour. His sickish sentimentality epitomizes the reasons the French lost the war. They believed Napoleon’s pap, but hiked off like cowards.”
“You fought in the war?” She could not imagine the viscount, who always dressed in high kick, living the low life of a soldier.
His smile became as sly as a fox prowling a chicken coop. “There were many rôles to be played. Mine was not upon the march with the infantry. Yet I pride myself in having some small part in our victory.”
His cryptic words suggested he might have been a spy. A fair task for him, for not once had Emily guessed the course of his thoughts. Yet she could not envision him far from this breezy life. Irritation filled her. Was he hoaxing her? These could be the same lies he had fed to her with such success.
Emily said, “If you will excuse me.”
“But I won’t.”
“You won’t?” Simply because he was as handsome as a new penny was no reason for him to put aside his manners.
“Miss Talcott,” he continued, “I would appreciate an explanation of why you have treated me, both at the quarto’s shop and again now, with the scanty civility you would offer a knight of the road.”
“Odd that you should expect an answer, when you have been less than honest with me.”
“Again that charge of dishonesty. I recall no lies I have spoken to you.”
“No?” She kept her voice low. “The very first words you spoke to me were fabrications, for your tale of what happened at the card table differs from my father’s version. I ask you, my lord, whom I should believe.”
He set down his glass. Holding out his arm, he gestured toward the French doors leading to a balcony overlooking Valeria’s garden. “I think it would be wise if we discussed this in private.”
“I have nothing to say which would shame me.”
“Nor do I. However, Miss Talcott, your eyes are snapping like two blue-hot embers, and I fear your words shall bring me shame.” Taking her hand, he drew it into his arm.
She wanted to argue with this glib viscount, but again failed words failed her. As his fingers settled over hers on his arm, she was suffused with warmth. Warnings careened through her head. This was the man who made mamas swoon with dismay when he spoke to their daughters. Now she understood why. His silver eyes were hooded with secrets she could not resist trying to expose, even at the risk of involving herself with a rakehell.
As that sl
ow, bewitching smile tilted his lips, she forced her gaze away. Was she all about in the head? Even if she were skimble-skamble enough to entangle her life with his, this was the very worst time. She had to deal with the vexing problem of Marquis de la Cour.
Curious gazes followed them through the open doors. Tendrils of fog oozed in the early dusk. The damp aroma of dew was intoxicating, but Emily ignored it. She withdrew her hand from Lord Wentworth’s arm and faced him. She tried not to be disconcerted by the fact that her eyes were level with his lips.
Raising them, she asked in her coolest tone, “Why did you lie to me? You told me Papa had won at the card table.”
“So he did, on numerous occasions.” He smiled as he leaned against a large concrete planter. “I, on the other hand, won on many more. Lady Luck was his companion during the evening, but she turned her favor on me through the night.”
“You intentionally misled me!”
“I was honest with you.”
“You said there was no need for me to even Papa’s accounts with you.”
His lips straightened. “No matter what you have heard of me, Miss Talcott, I do not call on pretty brunettes to dun them for their fathers’ debts.”
“I was offering to pay them.”
“Do you do that often?”
She tightened her fringed shawl around her shoulders. The night was not cold, but his voice was. “I manage my father’s household. All of its expenses are my concern.”
“What a paragon you are!”
“It’s a daughter’s place to do what I do.”
“By the elevens, you are as dutiful as I have heard! Sponsoring your sister, although she can be only a few years your junior, during the Season and watching your father’s household as close as wax. What sort of life is that for a young woman?”
“My life is mine to spend as I please.”
“Or squander.”
“Am I the one squandering my life, my lord?” she returned with heat. “I have my friends and my family and a reputation of which I am proud.”
Lord Wentworth suddenly grinned. “Now I understand your loathing of my company. You fear I will taint your sister’s chances for a good match. I must assure you, Miss Talcott, that my reputation, as is the case with most reputations, I have discovered, is based more on fiction than fact.”
“You wish me to believe that you despise playing cards?”
He laughed. “Not in the least, but I enjoy other facets of life as much. I know it is said that I would as lief play cards than eat or—” His chuckle became softer. “Excuse me, Miss Talcott. My crude language proves I’ve been too long away from the gentle company of a winsome lady.”
Emily looked at the fan tied to her wrist. She found it difficult to believe that “Demon Wentworth” was this man who was as gentle as the amusement twinkling in his eyes. Was either the real Lord Wentworth, or was he trying to baffle her with the sense of humor he had warned her of when he called at Hanover Square?
“Then it would behoove you,” she said, “to recall yourself. Lady Fanning expects a certain propriety from her guests.”
“Now you are wondering why Lady Fanning invited me to her home.”
“My lord, I never—”
“No, you would never say that,” he interrupted with another chuckle, “but your eyes betray your thoughts.”
Emily decided the only way to salvage her faltering composure was to answer as boldly. “I would have guessed you find such gatherings boring,” she said.
“I have little interest in the travesties of the Season, that is true. Riding in the Park is boring. Plying the dowagers and the young misses with court-promises suits me as a saddle suits a sow. Trying to avoid covetous mamas with marriageable daughters is tiresome. I would as lief retire to the card table.” He sat on the edge of the planter and smiled. “Do you play cards, Miss Talcott?”
“I leave that to Papa.” She started to add more, but her eyes were captured by his that were even with hers for the first time. Hastily, she lowered her eyes. Her heart thumped against her chest as if she had raced from Hanover Square to Hyde Park.
“That is much the pity.”
His even voice irritated her, although she was being want-witted. He was not going to apologize for lying to her, so she should put an end to this conversation.
“That is your opinion, my lord. Now I must ask you, again, to excuse me.” She folded her hands behind her back. “I must see to Miriam.”
“Another of your duties. Which ideal man has your sister chosen to ensnare before the end of the Season?”
“Really, my lord, you ask such inappropriate questions.”
He laughed. “And you avoid answering every one. I doff my cap to you, Miss Talcott, and give you warning. You should not play cards, for your countenance betrays every sentimental sentiment within you.” He stood. “Mayhap you should try your hand at rewriting the marquis’s drivel. Surely you could do no worse.”
“I leave poetry to the poets.”
He held out his hand, and she was sure her heart had stopped. Her breath caught in her throat, but her thoughts were alive with anticipation of his broad fingers touching her once more. Knowing such fantasies were unseemly, she was unable to dampen them … She did not want to dampen them.
She swallowed her gasp as Lord Wentworth reached past her and lifted the sagging branch of an azalea. “Lady Fanning could use your skill with her garden. This is hard to kill, but it appears she has managed that.”
Emily blinked. She had been a cabbage-head to think he was intrigued with her. Closing her eyes, she sighed. She was lucky he intended to be a gentleman this evening, for her thoughts were constantly wandering off in a most unladylike direction.
“Valeria tries very diligently to improve her garden,” she whispered. When he gave her an odd glance, she added in a more casual tone, “I have offered her what advice I can.”
Shaking his head, he looked down into the garden where the plants showed as little life as the stone statues. “If you want my opinion, you should suggest that Lady Fanning leave the gardening to someone with your gentle touch.” He squatted and peered under the bush. “The soil here is too dry and tasteless for this plant.”
Emily faltered, astonished anew by his obvious interest in plants. When he glanced at her, she hurried to say, “The plants get little light and rain here.”
Standing, he wiped his hands to loosen any dirt. “Something we can agree upon. Mayhap there is hope for salvaging our nascent friendship.”
“I expect my friends to be honest with me.”
He smiled as he offered his arm. There was a challenge in his voice when he said, “As I shall be from now on.”
Chapter Six
Emily tried to concentrate on the reading, but Lord Wentworth’s words intruded into her thoughts. She could not force them from her mind. Why was he intending to be a part of her life?
Or was it Papa’s life he planned to play a part in? She wanted to warn him to stay far from her father, but that would be useless. As she had told Miriam, she had no say in Papa’s choice of companions.
She found it impossible to listen to Valeria. Her friend was reading a sonnet Emily particularly disliked, especially when she thought of how many hours she had labored to make the words fit together. She winced as Valeria stumbled on a word. It was not Valeria’s fault, but the rhythm of the line.
She was too aware of Lord Wentworth standing at the back of the room, his arms folded over his chest, no expression on his face. He could have been one of the statues in the garden. His assurances that he enjoyed poetry had sounded hollow. Or had she wanted them to sound that way? If she could discount him as nothing more than a gamester, it would be easier to ignore her pleasure when he sought her out.
Silk rustled behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder as a quivering hand grasped her arm. She stared into Miriam’s red-ringed eyes.
“Emily, I can’t stay here,” Miriam whispered. She glanced toward the front of
the room where Valeria was accepting the polite applause.
Clapping along with the others, Emily saw Mr. Simpkins was standing behind Valeria. The man never seemed willing to emerge from the shadow of Valeria’s beauty. She sighed. This evening was taking a bad turn all around.
“Get your bonnet, Miriam, and I shall make our farewells.”
“Thank you.”
Wanting to urge her sister to put aside her foolish dreams, Emily knew how silly that was. She had dreams of her own. Being free of the responsibility of her family and being able to write the book on gardens was a future she might savor only in her dreams. Patting her sister’s hand, she rose as Miriam went to collect their bonnets.
She eased along the row of chairs and started toward Valeria. When a glass was held out to her, blocking her way, she looked past it to see Lord Wentworth’s smile.
“Drink with me to our delight at the cessation of that mewling mess of words,” he said.
“If you do not like the poems, you need not have stayed!”
“There is no reason to leave until my companions at the card table do.” Chuckling, he added, “Allow me to join you on your journey which seems so incredibly crucial.”
“Crucial?”
“You were acting as single-minded as Simpkins when he is in pursuit of Lady Fanning. Your gaze focused on the floor, hands at your sides, and a frown on your face.”
Emily could not keep from laughing when he aped Graham Simpkins’s mannerisms with ease.
“Much better,” he said, straightening and offering her the glass again. “If you do not wish to drink to the end of the readings, then let us drink to something else.”
“What would that be?”
“Friendship.”
“Ours?” she asked boldly.
His eyes crinkled in his bronzed face. “Why not? Unless you think it would be a waste of good champagne.”
“A waste?” She tapped her glass against his. “Anything is possible, my lord.”
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