To Romance a Scoundrel

by Rosie Wynter

  “It was not,” Claire said at last. She trained her eyes toward the ground, finding it easier to speak about the matter when she wasn’t looking at her sister directly.

  “I will confess, Lord Dalton continues to improve upon me every time I see him. I was truly impressed by the story of his role model and how he, himself, came to be an architect. But I will probably always struggle to understand the particulars involved in architecture and stonework. However, I can at least appreciate the finished work as a thing of beauty. More than this, I can appreciate that it is a true art form, and one for which the earl cares deeply. In this, I am prepared to see us as equals. I will not judge him for being a poor reader, just as I hope he does not judge me for not understanding the specifics of stone masonry.”

  “A very good attitude to take,” Grace said. “I am glad to see you maturing since you have arrived here.”

  “If I have matured, I have you to thank for it,” Claire said. She took a deep breath, and her lips puckered, as if her words had left a slightly sour taste in her mouth. “For what it is worth, your words the other day did more to alter my perspective on things than a thousand lessons with Aunt Lynch. I think I needed your brutal honesty about what you saw in me, even if it was a bitter tonic.”

  “I’m glad you can see it that way,” Grace replied. “I know we always had an... antagonistic relationship growing up, but I hope you know that I would never say those things to you to score you off or anger you.”

  “I know,” Claire assured her, patting her sister’s hand. “I have known you long enough to know when you are trying to tease me and when you are speaking for my own benefit.”

  “So then, what now?”

  Grace’s open-ended question caused Claire to raise a brow. She shrugged her shoulders and let out a sigh. “I suppose, for now, I continue to speak with Lord Dalton. I will not pretend I am immune to his charm and noble qualities. Still, there is a long summer ahead of us here at Holdenwood Manor. As I am not yet certain of my feelings for the earl, I can use the time wisely to examine myself, and be sure that I am not just allowing myself to settle in love because I fear no better option will present itself to me.”

  “I can assure you, from all I have seen of Lord Dalton since coming to know him, that I do not think you could find better,” Grace assured her. “Still, I will not look to rush your decision. I believe it displays a good deal of sense and practicality.”

  Claire nodded, and a smile crept over her face. “And, of course...” she said, purposefully dragging out her words, “... I should leave at least another month to see whether my dashing knight in shining armour will leap out of the pages of my novels to whisk me away.”

  Grace chuckled and shook her head. “I know you are joking, dear, and therefore I will say nothing.”

  As the two women walked through the flower garden, inspecting the range of colourful blooms displayed before them, Claire noticed Catherine walking up the garden path toward them. She gave the red-headed woman a cheerful wave. Catherine did not wave back but just increased her pace, seeming to barrel towards the women at some speed.

  “I am guessing there must be some news,” Grace said, frowning a little.

  Claire nodded, and both women stood in place, waiting for Catherine to come to them. She came to an abrupt halt before them, then bent a little as she tried to catch her breath. Claire could only guess she had been rushing around the grounds looking for them for some time.

  “I’m... I’m so glad I have found you at last,” Catherine said, somewhat breathless.

  “Why, what on earth is the matter? Has there been some accident?”

  “No... no, nothing of the sort,” Catherine assured. “Your presence is required in the house, Grace. It seems we are to have an unexpected visitor descending upon us in a few hours.”

  Grace’s eyes narrowed. “I haven’t invited anyone to come and stay with us. Should I suppose that this visitor is one of my aunt’s many friends, who ‘just happens’ to be staying in the neighbourhood?”

  “More or less,” Catherine confessed. “Your aunt received a letter this morning from her friend, Lady Helen Barrett. The letter said only that she had heard your aunt was staying at Holdenwood Manor and that Lady Helen had resolved to come down at once to see her. She is apparently eager to show off a promising young fellow for whom she acts as patron.”

  “It is always the same with my aunt’s friends, presuming they can just show up at other people’s homes unannounced.” Grace smiled and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I do not suppose Lady Helen indicated how long she plans to be staying with us?”

  “Not a word of it, but I told the servants to prepare two quarters, just in case.”

  Claire frowned, noticing the way her sister’s brow had creased and the muscles in her jaw tightened. Grace was nothing if not a hospitable host. Still, so soon before her confinement, the thought of having more guests under her roof must have been worrisome.

  “I’m not familiar with Lady Helen,” Claire confessed as the three began to walk back toward the house.

  “She was known to me when I was staying in London with our aunt,” Grace answered in a clipped manner.

  “I remember her,” Catherine spoke up, her more upbeat tone suggesting greater helpfulness. “She always had the most fascinating stories of her travels abroad in Europe. She used to leave me quite jealous of her situation.”

  “She is a widow like our aunt,” Grace explained. “Unlike dear Aunt Lynch though, she used the free time and money she had to travel and indulge in the world, rather than setting herself up as a matchmaker.”

  Claire smirked. “Does the letter say anything about the young man for whom she is a patron?” Claire asked the question with interest but noticed the way Grace shot her a stern look. She was not sure what she had said to offend. Maybe her sister really did not want to know anything of these uninvited guests.

  “The letter says he is an aspiring young poet. Lady Helen encountered him in France, or somewhere on the continent. He was conducting a grand tour at the time but struggling to make it around the continent with very little funds.”

  “Fascinating.” Claire quickened her pace to draw level with Catherine. “Does the letter say anything else about him? He must be a wordsmith of considerable skill and talent to attract the eye of a noblewoman.”

  “Either that or he is just easy on the eye,” Grace said, smiling a little to take the sting from her words. “I remember Lady Helen as being an admirer of talented and good-looking young artists.” For a moment she seemed to be tempted to say more, but then she took a breath and said, “I won’t be at all surprised if this so-called ‘poet’ is nothing more than a handsome fool who has just enough imagination to string a couple of lines of verse together.”

  “Well, we shall find out soon enough, I suppose,” Claire said. Seeing her sister’s face was looking more and more worried as they walked, she decided not to attempt to say anything to lighten the mood. Grace was lost to her concern. All that could be done was to wait and see what manner of person or persons would arrive at Holdenwood Manor Hall that afternoon.

  By around midday, suitable arrangements had been made to ensure everything was prepared for the arrival of Lady Helen and her protégé. The guest rooms were ready, the cooks had been ordered to rearrange the day’s menu, and servants had been sent into the local town to buy in more meat and fish, in case Lady Helen should be looking to stay with them for more than one night.

  Claire supposed that Lady Helen would surely understand that her visit was surprising, arriving at a country home that already had guests in residence and where the lady of the house was not far from her confinement. Notwithstanding this, Claire was quite taken with the idea of Lady Helen. While she had not yet met her, which would have been the correct manner to form an impression of her, the thought of a worldly woman who had travelled the world and kept a protégé in residence was quite exotic and pleasing. Claire imagined she would have a great deal to
say to the woman. More than this, though, Claire’s mind was on the poet who would be travelling with Lady Helen. The thought of meeting an actual wordsmith was thrilling in the extreme. During her time in London, Claire had been unable to meet with any writers or poets. The thought of meeting a true artist, one whose sphere was within the realm of books, excited her beyond words.

  “Your sister seems upset by our impending arrivals.” Lord Dalton’s voice caught Claire quite off guard. She did not normally see the earl about the house during the daylight hours. Typically, Lord Dalton would not leave his work on the west wing during the daytime, unless it was Sunday or there was bad weather, which forced him to abandon his post.

  “Y–Yes, it is indeed an unusual turn of events.” Claire tried to infuse her voice with understanding and sympathy as she nodded. “Do you think the presence of Lady Helen will disturb your work schedule at all?”

  “She and her travelling companion are to be given rooms on the side of the property that I am currently working on. While I do not make a great deal of noise as I go, I have considered putting the work aside for the duration of Lady Helen’s stay.”

  “You are most thoughtful,” Claire said. “Do you know the lady at all?”

  “Yes, we have crossed paths a few times down the years,” Lord Dalton said, folding his arms as he spoke. “She was introduced to me as someone ‘I absolutely had to know’, because of our mutual interest in design and art.”

  “Should I take it then that you do not get along well with Lady Helen?”

  Lord Dalton took a deep breath, eyes turning away. He seemed to struggle with his answer. “No, most certainly not. I do not harbour any ill feeling or dislike toward her. It is just that her taste and mine do not completely agree.”

  Claire nodded, “Is there anything particularly objectionable in her designs and ideas for architecture?”

  “She has a lively imagination, and she highly favours classical Grecian designs, rooted in mythology and legend.” The earl looked at Claire for a moment. “But let us speak of different matters. I do not want to bore you with architectural talk.”

  Claire nodded again, wishing she had not embarked on this train of conversation with the earl. It was quite clear that he took no pleasure in talking about Lady Helen and her views on architecture. “It is nice to have you with us here in the daylight hours and not working hidden away amongst the masonry for the whole day, though.”

  “Perhaps I would have done so if I had not been so pleasingly distracted in your company, Miss Curtis.” The earl’s compliment was enough to send a glow to her cheeks. Claire’s smile broadened.

  “I must admit,” the earl continued, “… it is nice to have some time to myself today. I even had the opportunity to write to my sister, Amelia.”

  “Oh, I did not know you had a sister.” Claire frowned, unsure how such an obviously critical part of the earl’s life was unknown to her.

  “Have I not mentioned her?” The earl seemed similarly surprised. “I suppose I have been rather caught up talking with you on other matters… Amelia is–”

  At that moment, the Duchess of Lynch appeared in the corridor. She was moving with great swiftness, having emerged quite brusquely from the sewing room.

  “I have just seen their carriage now! Oh, I cannot wait to see dear Helen. I am sure she will have many tales of mischievousness and intrigue to share from her time on the continent.”

  “Well, at least someone seems excited by our guest’s arrival,” Claire whispered to the earl. Both exchanged looks as Claire’s aunt breezed past them, looking as happy as a small child on Christmas morning.

  With nothing else to do, and with some genuine curiosity hurrying her steps, Claire followed after her aunt. The front doors of Holdenwood Manor were opened wide by two footmen, as a large white carriage with gold-painted trim, pulled up to the front of the building. It took a moment for the servants to rush to the carriage, and in that time, Cromford, Grace and Catherine were able to gather in the drawing room to greet the newcomers. Claire stepped closer to the window, allowing her a clear view of the halted carriage.

  As they waited for the carriage door to be opened, Claire took a moment to glance sideways. She took in the expressions of the others, noticing the slight strain on Catherine’s cheeks as she tried to put on a hospitable smile. The Duke of Cromford seemed well-composed, his hands held straight behind his back and a polite expression on his face. Grace looked worried, but she, too, did her best to offer her welcome. Only when Cromford took a step closer to her and put an arm around her, did she relax. Her hand moved to take her husband’s arm.

  The Earl of Dalton stood with lips drawn thin and eyes slightly narrowed. It was quite a fearsome sight when Claire considered his muscles held in tension. He seemed to take in a sharp inhalation of breath as the footman opened the carriage door.

  Lady Helen emerged from the carriage first, dressed in a gown that really ought to have been worn to a ball. It was a luxurious dress made of crumpled pink taffeta and accentuated with embroidered flower designs about the hem. The cut of the gown about her chest was so low, as to be almost scandalous, revealing far too much of Lady Helen’s considerable bust. The seams of the dress also clung tightly about her waist and it was obvious that the dress was far too tight on her frame. The lady was not particularly overweight, but she had a somewhat stocky frame that her dress was just not built to support. The woman herself was elderly and obviously struggling to contain the damage the years had inflicted on her body.

  Her appearance was in sharp contrast to that of the Duchess of Lynch, who was obviously blessed. Aunt Lynch had the kind of face and beauty that never seemed to fade. Aside from a few very slight lines at the edges of her eyes and a slight crease around her lips, she always managed to look like some older companion to Claire and her siblings. It had been one of the things of which their mother had always been jealous. Mrs Curtis had lost her looks early in life and always resented the way time refused to touch the dowager duchess.

  Looking at Lady Helen, as she fussed about straightening her dress, Claire had to wonder if this oddity of a woman held a similar resentment for her aunt. Even over the distance that separated them, Claire could see that Lady Helen’s face was a map of variously growing wrinkles. They had not yet set deeply into her skin, but it was evident that she had applied a good amount of powder to cover the worst of the damage her face had suffered in life. Claire, rather ungenerously, wondered whether the woman’s face would be overrun with canyons and deep valleys if she were to grow to extreme old age.

  Lady Helen’s hair was thin and seemed to be an ashen grey colour. Claire caught only a brief glimpse of the woman’s true hair however, for it was quickly tucked away under an extravagant and weighty looking wig, fashioned into a too ridiculous pompadour. Flowers adorned her hair near the crown of her headpiece, a full ten inches or more from her forehead. Claire had to wonder how the woman was able to keep her hair balanced on her head. Even with an army of pins and thread, she felt certain that such a weighty construct risked tumbling off!

  Claire forced her eyes to move from the oddity that was Lady Helen Barrett. She let her gaze return to the carriage, waiting to see what manner of man the lady’s pet poet was. After seeing Lady Helen with her own eyes, Claire’s expectations of the man had… somewhat fallen.

  Dark brown boots stepped out onto the gravel, accompanied by thin legs clad in tight cream-coloured britches. The man’s entire frame was lithe and trim. Despite this, he did not look malnourished or sickly.

  The two mounted the steps and Claire was able to observe the man more closely as they approached. From the way he moved, and the way his hands were held clasped smartly behind his back, there was a suggestion of wiry strength to the man, like a fox. Indeed, the fox-like suggestion of the man was borne out all the more when one considered his mess of russet-coloured hair. The man’s eyes were brown, a kind of light caramel colour, and there was a certain intensity in his gaze. The way he took
in his surroundings suggested a heightened sense of purpose and consideration.

  Finally, the butler ushered the pair into the drawing room and announced, “Lady Helen Barrett–”

  He did not get the chance to say more, as Lady Helen herself burst out with, “As I live and breathe! If it isn’t my favourite companion in widowhood!” a greeting directed at the Duchess of Lynch.

  Claire’s eyes widened at the strange compliment. Lady Helen seemed to be a woman for whom excess was ingrained – even into her personality.

  “My dear! My dear!” Lady Helen repeated the phrase as she crossed the marble floor.

  She opened her arms wide as she approached, whereas Aunt Lynch held her arms out in response but remained sitting in place. She waited for Lady Helen to come to her before getting up and accepting her embrace. When Lady Helen’s cheek touched her face, Aunt Lynch was left with a good amount of powder smeared over her skin. She seemed sensitive to the fact and was quick to pull out a handkerchief. At first, Claire thought her aunt would be irritated. But, as Lady Helen pulled away, it was apparent that her aunt was very pleased to see her friend. She wore that particular smile she wore for genuine friends. Her aunt had many professional smiles, used at parties when engaging with people she did not much care for. Claire could tell from the way her aunt’s cheek muscles seemed unstrained by the motion, that the smile she wore now was genuine.

  Her travelling companion stood silently beside her, regarding them carefully. As his eyes moved between Grace, Cromford and the rest of the household, Claire could almost feel the way his mind seemed to turn as he took each of them in, one by one. She was quite convinced that his head was already turning each of them into words, committing their aspects and features to material that might one day form the basis of his poetry. She was particularly flattered when his gaze lingered longer on her than it did on any of the others… He seemed to catch her watching him and his lips spread into a kind of knowing smile, as if recognising some kindred spirit who saw the world as he did.