by Cecilia Gray
“Well,” she prodded, “I suppose you just . . . start. Have a bite of chocolate. Take a sip of wine.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied her with narrowed eyes. “You think happiness is as simple as sipping wine, eating chocolate, and reading poetry?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Tell me, Dinah, what do you enjoy? No, let me guess . . .” He steepled his fingers and tapped the tips against his lips. “You enjoy the thrill of discovery. Being right, especially when someone else is wrong.”
She grinned. “Would not everyone find that enjoyable if he or she had the talent for it?”
“Ah, you enjoy being smarter than others. Knowing things that other people do not. Even now, having this—” he gestured between them “—this secret gives you a thrill, doesn’t it, Dinah?”
His scrutiny unsettled her. This was her experiment, not his! “Your heartbreak give me no pleasure,” she said defensively.
“No, not that,” he agreed readily. “But this interaction between you and me. You have not told your sisters, have you?”
“Have you told your brothers? Or your friends?”
“Certainly not. It’s a tad . . . strange, isn’t it? There might be ideas about our arrangement, if you understand.”
“I always understand,” she said primly. Their missives, if intercepted, would be perceived as strange but not personal. Yet in being alone with him, and considering the previous times they had been alone, she had to admit they had crossed the line from common acquaintances to something more intimate.
“So tell me, Dinah.” He leaned over the table, his voice lowering. “What if I were to place you in a room with Benjamin and ask you to share a secret? Would you still have that thrill? That excitement?”
“I hardly know him.”
“Precisely. The entire venture would feel manufactured. Awkward. It would not be enjoyable because you had not encountered it naturally.”
She considered his words, the way his tapered fingers toyed with the stem of the wineglass but did not raise it to his lips. “You cannot enjoy the chocolate, the wine, and the poetry because their delivery feels contrived.”
“Precisely.”
“Then what can I do to assist?”
He stood and went to the cupboard, removed another wineglass, and set it down on the table. He poured from the bottle and smiled at her. “Have a drink with me.”
She felt her heart quicken at the mischief in his expression, but she accepted the glass as he returned to his seat across from her.
He lifted his own glass and said, “A toast to you on your nineteenth birthday. While you have listened to complete strangers discuss your beauty, your charms, your smile, I shall toast your true talent—your brain. Salut.”
“Salut?” She took a sip, enjoying the flush produced by his compliments.
“A French expression. Appropriate, since the wine you’ve chosen to open from this collection is quite rare, dreadfully expensive, and copiously French.”
She winced. “I can obtain more.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure your family’s coffers have paid for it one way or another.”
“Wine makes you frank,” she said.
“Wine makes one a lot of things.” He drew his finger along the cloth spine of the volume of poetry.
As she took another gulp, the wine wended its way down her throat, shooting warmth through her veins and into every inch of her body. She had another sip. “What is it that you like about poetry?” she asked, leaning back in her chair, her limbs already lazy.
“It’s beautiful.” His eyes lifted to hers. “Do you understand that?”
“I understand beauty,” Dinah said with a lift of her chin. “A scientific proof? An elegant explanation of the world? That is beautiful.”
“Poetry is an elegant explanation of the heart.” He flipped the book open and flicked through the pages. “Much of what we say to one another is so mundane. Poetry elevates that. Ah, here—a poem about you, it appears.”
“Nonsense.” She sat up in her chair and peered over the table at the book.
He pulled it toward him and shook his head. “Tsk-tsk. One shouldn’t have to read a poem about oneself. One should hear it read. Sit back and enjoy your wine.”
She did as he asked but glared at him all the while.
He cleared his throat. “The poem is On a Certain Lady at Court by Alexander Pope.”
“I would never be at court.”
“Hush and listen.” He gave her a stern look and began to read:
“I know the thing that’s most uncommon;
(Envy be silent and attend!)
I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend.”
A friend. Who was alone no doubt. She forced her voice to come evenly. “I certainly don’t know if I find that complimentary, given you have debased my entire sex as unreasonable.”
He ignored her and continued to read. “Not warp’d by passion, aw’d by rumour.”
“Well, that’s enough,” she said with a snappish sip. “Neither am I warped nor awed by poetry.”
He laughed and slapped the book closed. “Perhaps I should make up my own poem about you. No, better yet, you ought to make up one about me.”
“Me? A poem?”
“Yes,” he insisted. “We are trying to make a happy memory, after all. Chocolate?”
“What? No.”
He raised a brow.
“Oh, very well,” she said, exasperated. He pushed the plate containing two broken pieces of chocolate toward her and she snapped off a piece that she put in her mouth. As it melted against her tongue, she had to admit, she did enjoy the sensation and rich taste.
“Now, a poem,” he said, taking his own piece of chocolate. He relaxed further in his chair, sinking down and leaning back. “Make it a good one.”
She wanted to glare at him, but his expression was so amused and entertained that she felt herself smiling instead. Besides, this was for science. She was to replicate enjoyable memories with him that did not involve Lady X in an effort to cure him. If that meant conjuring up one poem, she would do it. “I know a thing that’s most uncommon.”
“I believe that is plagiarism, Dinah. A wretched crime.”
She shushed him. “Envy be silent! And attend. I know a lonely, heartbroken man.”
“Handsome and witty?” he asked.
“Yet a Friend,” she agreed.
“Not warp’d by betrayal, aw’d by science.
Not grave through loss, or gay through malice.
A good gentleman, of heart and soul,
Who did not deserve to be treated callous.”
His smile fell and he took a longer drink, this time emptying his glass.
The pit of her stomach knotted. She had said words more personal than she would have liked. “You didn’t like it?”
“No, I did,” he said quickly. He stood and pushed back his chair. “But I believe we should return to your celebration.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I think your experiment did work. For a moment, with you, I did not think of her at all.”
* * *
As with most house parties with robust activities all through the night, several rooms had been set aside for female guests to indulge in afternoon naps. While there was no need for the Belles to make use of these rooms since they were provided with private quarters, it was practice that they joined their guests if the need for respite overtook them. Most of the elderly guests and young ladies had taken to bed to gather strength for the night of dancing ahead.
Dinah, however, felt no need for respite. She should have felt languid and boneless from the drink, the chocolate, and the poetry. Instead, a hum of energy flooded her veins, which is how she found herself the sole woman still awake as the men adjourned for cigars and cards.
There were too many men to be contained within the card room, so games had been set up in the library and dining room
. It left Dinah with few options for solitude, so she wandered outside beneath to the tent that earlier had held food and drink and sat back in a chaise amid the maze of abandoned chairs.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
She started at her father’s voice. “Two thoughts,” she said, “the first being that you are preternaturally sneaky, and the second being that you can afford to pay much more than a penny.”
He chuckled and leaned forward in his chair, just beyond the cover of the tent. She could not make out his exact expression, but the moonlight cast enough glow to illuminate the planes of his face, his hands, and the white of his shirt, which peeked out from beneath his dark coat.
“Why are you out here?” he asked.
“I could ask the same of you.”
“I take a moment for the stars,” he said. “But you cannot see them beneath your tent.”
“I wanted a moment for myself.”
“Which I’ve disrupted. Very well, it is your birthday. I shall be the one to quit.” He began to rise.
“Don’t go.”
He sat with a grunt.
They were alone, for the first time in her recent memory. He was at her disposal. She could share any thought she had. Any brilliant revelations or singular realizations. She had her moment to show him that she was more than a girl to be married off.
And as such, her usual intellect failed her.
What could she possibly say? What one thing could possibly compete with his own idea of who she was?
“What do you see in the stars?” she asked instead.
He leaned back in his chair and cast his gaze up to the night sky. “Navigation points. A map. I know which star carries me away and which brings me home.”
She moved to the seat next to him. “It’s so different here than in London.” In Town, the sky was obscured by factory steam and lamplights.
“It’s even more brilliant from the sea.”
Thousands of glittering pinpricks winked at her from the inky blanket above. Her father saw a map. A practical application. She should appreciate that sentiment, applaud it. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to see.
* * *
Miss D.,
In the aftermath of the birthday fete, I was unable to bid you good-bye before your family returned to London. I want to thank you again for your kindness and scientific attentions.
G.
* * *
Lord G.,
I hope you have continued the work we have started. I insist upon you reporting your ongoing efforts in this arena.
D.
* * *
Miss D.,
While I am not inclined to selfishly engage matters of my own heart, I have been tasked with my brother’s happiness. Tom has been forlorn since your sister Sera’s departure for the Continent. It is unfortunate that his business in the House of Lords prevents him from joining her. At any rate, I have been charged with lifting his melancholy and must confess that in doing so I have lifted my own.
There is a prescribed adage that to help yourself you must first help others, and I hope in this case it proves true. Tom has taken to more riding in the hopes that he will be a natural upon Sera’s return. I do not believe he will master it, but the results so far have given us many a story to share at the club.
G.
Chapter Five
Third annual Belle birthday crush
July 2, 1819
Woodbury, England
Graham shielded his eyes from the sun. He craned his neck up at Tom slipping from side to side on his mount, a chestnut mare that Savage had threatened to steal at the first sign of its dissatisfaction at Woodbury.
Tom pulled the reins tight into his hammy fists with a chuckle. “Almost got it,” he said. “Whoooaaaa, girl.” With a grunt, Tom slid down the left side of the horse. His right foot hooked rather unceremoniously in its stirrup. “Blast.”
Graham set a steady hand on the mare’s nose and yanked his brother’s foot free. Tom fell to the ground with a crash. His giant of a brother laughed again, then jumped to his feet and dusted himself off. “That wasn’t a total failure, now, was it?”
“You made it back from the hunt in one piece and on time, didn’t you?” It wasn’t as if Graham was at the top of his game, either. He’d missed every shot. He found he was anxious to see Dinah and resentful of the usual activities which distracted him. These annual bashes had become an opportunity to see her, to be surprised by her, and to be surprised by himself.
“Your bar is as low and generous as ever.” Tom patted his belly and kissed his mare on the nose. “Good girl, bearing with me all that time. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
“That she is.” Savage and Sera had chosen well for his brother.
Tom handed his reins to a groom and dusted himself off a second time. He watched the horse being led off, past the other guests at the Belles’ birthday fete who had participated in the hunt and returned long before. “I’m sure everyone wonders what a beauty like her is doing with a beast like me.”
Graham was not one to misunderstand his brother’s words to mean the horse rather than the beautiful wife who had procured the steed for him. “I’m sure they think you’re amazing between the sheets.”
Tom bellowed with laughter until he was hoarse from it. “Would that all of London had your outlook. But why so impatient? Even now, I can see you scanning the crowd looking for more enjoyable company than I can offer.”
Graham’s gaze snapped back to Tom, whose jolly blue eyes crinkled.
“You needn’t defend yourself,” Tom said. “No pardon necessary. There are a number of guests more interesting than the brother you see all the time. Perhaps a particular lady?”
There was a particular lady, but not in the sense that Tom assumed. “I wouldn’t put anyone above family,” he assured his brother.
“Our family seems to be expanding lately, doesn’t it?” Tom sighed as he gazed across the green to Sera. “And to think we have Father to thank for her and her sisters. I remember being so disappointed when you were born.”
“Well, damn, Tom, don’t spare my feelings,” Graham said dryly.
Tom grinned. “I wanted a little sister, especially after Benjamin. I know most boys do not, but I thought it would be the most wonderful experience. Benjamin was so . . .” He trailed off with a sigh.
Graham was certain he meant to say ducal. It was the great unsaid thing. Tom, the heir, was buffoonish and portly, with round cheeks and a rounder belly that never seemed to bend to the will of exercise, whereas Benjamin—and even Graham to some extent—was tall, dark, lean, and every bit the physical picture of someone of his rank. Benjamin also had the quiet command of a duke. Of course, Tom had been the one to marry an heiress. There was no arguing with that.
“Benjamin was so unbearable,” Graham ventured, leading Tom back to the main house, “that you loathed the idea of another brother?”
“Ha! Benjamin would keel over to hear you say something so unkind. No, of course not. Benjamin has always been a good brother. The most serious of us, as you know. He was always so self-sufficient. But I wanted to take care of someone. You always did well in school and Gray…well, he had his own mind. I wanted a sister, someone to protect. And now we have the Belles. Their father desperately desires to see them all wed. It is our privilege to offer the protection of our rank.”
“I doubt they need it,” Graham said. “They are heiresses with pretty faces. Isn’t that enough?”
“Heiresses with pretty faces, and more,” Tom said. “In some cases, too much more.”
“What do you mean?”
“The middle one, Dinah. She’s too much brain, I fear. An indomitable intellect that will not be readily received. Even I feel addled when she speaks. Can you imagine that, day in and day out?”
He felt the retort at his tongue, that only a stupid man would be afraid of Dinah, but bit it back given the insult it would offer his brother. He could imagine what it woul
d be like to be challenged by her every day, and what was wrong with that?
“Perhaps we could find her someone strong, to lead her toward more congenial behavior,” Tom mused. “I hesitate to ask her sisters to take her in hand. They love each other too much to correct one another’s behavior. Deuce take it, are you bleeding?”
Graham stopped in his tracks. He tasted iron. His fists were clenched, too. Bewildered, he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and it came away bloody. He’d bitten straight through his lip. “I’m not a little sister, no need to protect me,” he said with a gentle wave to stave off Tom’s efforts to study his injury. “Speaking of the Belle sisters, have you seen them? It is a bit odd they aren’t present, given this fete is in their honor.”
“But weren’t you at the toasts? Smart boy, if not; they went on for hours. The ladies were present then.”
Not all the ladies. He had craned his head nearly straight off his neck looking for Dinah. He’d cursed her stature, which made her difficult to spot in a crowded room, especially one struck up with dancing and celebration. Perhaps her physical appearance had altered since last he’d seen her. Had it really been another year? He would have assumed they would run into each other in London, but her sisters had been traveling, and without the need to chaperone and accompany them to events, she had not felt motivated to be out in Society. At least, that was what her letters had indicated. She had even written one in horrible rhyme that had made him laugh in the middle of his club, with nary an explanation to offer anyone.
“Look there, the archery field,” Tom said, pointing clear past the direction they’d already come.
He would seem a fool now, but apparently a fool he was. He gave his excuses to his brother and ran down a flight of stairs past the lawn where attendees were engaged in footraces—in all manner of what he was sure Dinah would term nonsense, their feet or hands bound to partners as they attempted to cross the lawn in the most expedient manner possible.
He studied her as he approached the archery field. Her cheeks were flushed, and her short curls, which were under a fashionable bandeau, were tousled in the wind. She was not shooting but speaking to her sisters. They were clearly having a somewhat private conversation in hushed tones, their hands held out to stop any words that might float away on the wind. Still, he approached. There was so much to tell her.