To Romance a Scoundrel

by Rosie Wynter

  As they took each other in, Claire found it hard to keep her eyes on the gentleman for too long. His own analytical gaze seemed to overpower her. She blushed and looked away from him. It was as she put her attention elsewhere, that she noticed Lord Dalton shift, his feet moving him a step closer to her. Had he noticed the change come over her?

  Aunt Lynch broke the silence. “My dear Helen, what kind of strange fashions have you picked up in your travels this time?” The Duchess of Lynch looked her friend up and down, paying close attention to her face. “You look… somehow… different, my dear. Is that a new powder you are wearing?”

  Claire was unable to prevent herself from giggling. Her aunt’s unexpected honesty took her very much by surprise. Fortunately, the others were no less able to contain their mirth. Lord Dalton couldn’t help but smile, and even Grace, who had spent so long in a state of worry, smiled gently.

  “Your words are as direct as ever, I see,” Lady Helen said, not seeming to mind the half-criticism at all. “If you are determined to make fun of the latest trends coming out of Europe, then I will be sure not to share them with you.”

  At that moment it was no tax on Claire’s imagination to envisage the two of them talking, Lady Helen espousing the value of silks and satins, and new lip salves and rouges. Or perhaps she would suggest new trends for the renovations – marble cherubs carved into the stonework or hung suspended on wires from the ceiling.

  “A punishment both just and fair,” Aunt Lynch replied to her friend. “Now, before we descend into our usual bickering, perhaps introductions are in order?” Aunt Lynch inclined her head towards the others of the household, particularly Cromford and Grace.

  “Oh, I have met your niece before and I know the Duke of Cromford well enough… well, I mean to say, who does not know his name after that dreadful scandal his brother Edmund Blackmore was involved in last year?”

  The amused smiles disappeared. Only Catherine, who was still the wife of the younger brother of Cromford, seemed not particularly affected by the woman’s breezy comment.

  “Perhaps, Lady Helen, it is time for tea,” Cromford said, his voice friendly but his eyes with an unmistakable warning.

  The over-flamboyant woman turned to him with a somewhat vacant expression on her face. “Oh, as you wish. I am fairly sure I could do with a lovely cup of tea after so long in the carriage. And, my dear father always told me never to argue with the one who puts a roof over your head.”

  Claire’s attention moved to the man who stood silently behind Lady Helen. He had not been made the object of an introduction, nor had he spoken a word. Instead, the curious poet clung to the corners of sight, seemingly invisible to the others in the company. Still, Claire was aware of him. More than this, she was aware of his eyes that scrutinised everything around him with such apparent meticulousness.

  Chapter 6

  Lady Helen wasted no time in making herself feel quite at home. As tea was ordered, she made it known to the servants what she wished to be done with her luggage. By the sounds of things, she had brought an entire wardrobe with her to the Cromford’s home. With every new instruction she gave, the hope that her stay would be brief dwindled. Grace shot a glance at her husband, and Cromford, in turn, gave a polite cough that interrupted Lady Helen’s directions.

  “Lady Helen, it seems you have brought rather a lot with you for what I was given to believe would be a short stay. While you are a welcome guest, I should like to know how long you intend on lodging here with us?”

  “Oh, Lord only knows,” the lady replied with a laugh.

  Cromford and Grace both shot looks at Aunt Lynch. Although she seemed amused by her friend’s antics, Claire was relieved to see that her aunt moved directly to provide some help in that situation.

  “My dear Helen, I must remind you that our family await a new arrival soon, and this is not a time in one’s life where vagaries can be tolerated. Is there any chance you could be a little more concrete about how long you were hoping to stay?”

  Lady Helen leaned back in her chair. Her chest heaved as she gave a most enormous sigh. With a shake of her head and a shrug of her shoulders, she finally answered. “I suppose, if you must press the matter, I was hoping to stay until next Wednesday, if that is amenable to you.”

  “A week…” Grace repeated struggling to keep her tone even.

  The duke began, “Lady Helen, we have work being done to the property that might not provide the most comfortable environment–”

  “No, that is quite alright, dear,” Grace interjected before her husband could deliver any concerns on her behalf. “I am by no means sequestered just yet, and we have more than enough space to accommodate Lady Helen. As concerns the work on the west wing, I am sure her presence will not derail the progress, shall it?”

  Grace looked to Lord Dalton at this last question, as though seeking some kind of confirmation from him. The man stepped forward, but before he could offer any reply, Lady Helen interjected, “Heavens, are we leaving my fate in the hands of England’s least imaginative architect? If Lord Dalton gets to decide the length of my stay, then I fear I should look to return to the carriage this instant.”

  Claire raised a brow and noted the slight smirk on the face of Lady Helen’s unknown poet companion. As for Lord Dalton, he stiffened sharply, and his eyes met Lady Helen’s. No love nor amusement was to be detected in his countenance.

  “We have our creative differences, it is true, but this does not mean I would look to chase you out of my friend’s home. As it is, I believe a week’s delay to the renovations should not prove a problem for us,” he said.

  “Excellent!” Lady Helen declared, clapping her hands together as though signalling that the deal was done. “Now then, Isabelle, let me introduce you to my promising young man.”

  The Duchess of Lynch offered her most perfunctory of smiles as she looked towards the gentleman. It seemed to Claire as though all in the room had forgotten about him until that moment.

  “This is Mr Ruben Hawkins, a most excellent poet and wordsmith, whom I was fortunate enough to find wandering around the continent in a near penniless state.”

  “Near penniless?” Claire latched onto the conversation at once, eager for information on the curious man in their midst.

  Rather than be spoken about, Mr Hawkins stepped forward, almost like an actor taking his position on the stage.

  “Indeed, I was quite penniless. I do not know what should have happened to me had I not had the good fortune to meet Lady Helen when I did.”

  “And just how did you two happen to meet?” Grace asked, moving to her husband’s side and taking a seat. Claire noted a surprising touch of ice in her sister’s question – one that only someone who knew her well could discern.

  The man ran a hand through his autumn-red hair and smiled, revealing a set of very well-maintained teeth. “My father was a blacksmith in a little-known village in the countryside. We did not have much room for luxury in our lives, but he was always quite insistent that we should have books and poetry. Despite our meagre existence of poverty and hardship, he was able to ensure that I was put through school and received a good education – something that is not always given to one of my station.”

  “Your father sounds like a most generous man,” Lord Dalton said.

  “The best, and a far greater father than I deserved. I am ashamed to say that I didn’t make the best use of the lessons my father toiled so hard to provide for me. While he wanted to see me rise to a stable and well-earning profession, I was too enchanted by novels and the poets to be any good in the spheres of law, medicine, or accounting.”

  Lord Dalton nodded. There was something reserved in the way he held himself. Perhaps because of Mr Hawkins’ association with Lady Helen, it appeared the man was not making a positive first impression with the earl. Claire thought this a pity, as Mr Hawkins seemed quite charming to her, so far.

  “After a short stint working as an apprentice in a bank in London, I knew I
would not flourish in the profession. I could feel the pull of words, art, of life, calling me. After I had saved enough money to fund a respite, I resolved to travel to Europe, to complete a tour of the continent, and to dedicate myself fully to the calling life had put on me: to be a poet.”

  Claire nodded with enthusiasm. When she looked at Grace, she could not fathom why her sister looked unimpressed by the man’s story. Grace wanted to hear his tale in full.

  “That is remarkable for one without money and connections. Your drive to follow your life’s passion is truly inspiring. Pray, do go on. Did you find inspiration during your travels?”

  Mr Hawkins’ smile broadened, and he nodded. By that point, his attention seemed to all be focused on Claire, and the others in the room were relegated to the roles of spectators in a two-way conversation.

  “Indeed, I found much that inspired me, and I wrote enough material to use up nearly an entire forest of paper. From time to time my work attracted some attention, and I was able to earn a little bit of coin by selling my work to those generous enough to buy my poems. However, over time, my funds dwindled, and I was forced to seek out more menial labours to help keep a roof over my head and to pay for the next boat or carriage.”

  “That must have been difficult,” Claire said.

  Mr Hawkins shrugged his shoulders, the smile never leaving his face for a moment. “I will admit, the toil of work on farms and vineyards might seem drear to some, but I never tired of picking grapes in the fields of Italy and France. There is something serene about the countryside, and it was a privilege to live as the locals do, and to see the world through their eyes. Although I wrote less, I was living a more authentic existence than I ever had before. In the hours I could write, always late in the evening, I do avow, the power of my words was only intensified by my experiences.”

  “If you so enjoyed the rustic life that the vineyards of Italy provided, how did you come to leave them?” the earl asked him.

  Claire turned to Lord Dalton, shocked by the bluntness of his question. There was a sense of a challenge in his voice, suspicion even. What had come over the man, she could not say. Claire would have to revaluate her estimation of the earl.

  “I made a decent wage working and living, travelling from farm to farm and vineyard to vineyard,” Mr Hawkins explained. “Over time, I became quite sure of my progress and course. Unfortunately, I ran into a spell of bad luck late in my travels. The farms I approached for work had already hired enough workers for the season and were not interested in taking on any more hands. This theme of rejection continued for some time, until I reached Rome, by which time I was down to my last few pennies.”

  “When I met dear Ruben, he was selling whole volumes of the poems he had written to anyone who spoke English and who could appreciate him,” Lady Helen said. “Why, the very first time we met, you were haggling with a waiter for a bottle of wine.”

  Mr Hawkins laughed. “I believe it was a lunch, Lady Helen.”

  “No, no. I quite certainly remember you haggling for a bottle of cheap red wine.” Lady Helen turned to Claire and let out a wistful sigh. “I had never seen so heartbreaking and pathetic a sight. I simply had to find out about this poor young man, and so I ordered the waiter to seat him at my table. I do not know how long I spent listening to his tale or reading his poetry. By the end of the day, however, I was smitten with his work and could not abide the thought of parting ways with him.”

  “Lady Helen was kind enough to rent me a room at the pension where she was staying,” Mr Hawkins continued. “She let me travel with her across the city, taking in all the sights of the grand city that I had longed to view. Then, when it came time to part ways, she made me an offer I could not refuse.”

  “I simply could not abide the idea of Mr Hawkins carrying on in Italy, unknown and nearly destitute. I knew full well that, if left to his own devices, he’d soon run out of money again and likely die in some barn. Knowing how brilliant his mind and his poetry were, I could not permit such a fate to befall him. So, a few nights before leaving for home, I all but insisted that Ruben return with me. I rented him a modest dwelling near my home in London, along with a servant and maid who see to his material needs. Whereas the man has a real talent for words, he has proven himself quite hopeless at remembering to do simple things such as eating his meals.”

  Claire laughed. “That sounds like the fault of a true artist.”

  Mr Hawkins ruffled the back of his own hair. He then hung his head with a rueful smile, like a child who had been caught stealing apples. “I really do make an awful nuisance of myself, it is true.”

  “Well, a most fascinating story, all told.” All of a sudden, Cromford waded into the conversation. Claire was somewhat surprised to see Grace’s husband interject as he did. From his tone, he seemed eager to prevent Mr Hawkins from speaking further.

  “I do not wish to appear rude or to cut you off, but I think it might be an idea for the servants to show you to your rooms, Lady Helen and Mr Hawkins. Given how particular you were in how you wanted your things laid out, I think it is proper that you take the time you need to ensure everything is placed in your room correctly, Lady Helen.”

  The older noblewoman gave a casual nod and hauled herself up out of her chair. At first, Claire thought that the lady would put up some kind of argument with the Duke of Cromford. However, it seemed that, outspoken as she was, she really did know to hold her tongue on some occasions. And after all, Cromford was the man of the house. No doubt she would not risk annoying him, in case it should lead to her early eviction.

  After Lady Helen and Mr Hawkins had been escorted to their rooms, the rest of the household dispersed also. Aunt Lynch went with her old friend to help her settle into her room, and Grace declared she needed to lie down for a time. Catherine, perhaps affected by Lady Helen’s earlier remarks about her erstwhile husband, disappeared into some corner of the house and seemed determined to remain hidden. As for the men, Cromford was quick to invite his friend Dalton, to walk into the local town. There was very little that generally seemed able to tempt the earl from his work on the estate, but John Dalton seemed quite ready to agree to his friend’s suggestion.

  For a moment, Claire thought her brother-in-law might invite her on the walk as well, but no such offer was made. Soon enough, Cromford and Dalton were gone, and she was alone in the house. With no other demands on her time, she followed her traditional custom and sought out a book to read from the library. She did not know why, but today she was compelled to remain within the library when she read. More than this, she found it difficult to choose a book she wanted. Every time she pulled down a volume from the shelf, Claire scrutinised it closely, determined to find something meaningful to read, but not finding the perfect fit.

  As Claire gravitated more and more to the works of poetry on the shelves, she realised her presence in the library was all for Mr Hawkins’ benefit. Although she tried to deny it, a part of her hoped that such a well-read gentleman would want to peruse the library at Holdenwood Manor, and she wished him to find her there. What was more, if Mr Hawkins were to spy her in the library, she wanted to be found reading something the poet might approve of. It was, she told herself, a perfectly innocent wish. They shared a keen interest in words, and she merely wished for more time to learn of his passion and perhaps view some of his work. That he was young, unconventionally handsome, and had such deep, searching eyes, had nothing to do with her desire to know him better, she was quite sure. Indeed, she’d have been just as glad to know him were he ugly and old.

  It was not long before Claire heard the library door open. She tried to resist the urge to smile, reminding herself that the new arrival could well be one of the servants, come to do the daily cleaning. She listened closely, looking for some telling sound that would reveal the identity of the new arrival.

  “Here is the library, Sir.” It was the voice of the butler, Mr Arnold. “You will find His Grace keeps his shelves well stocked in all that is be
st in contemporary literature. If you would care to look in the far-left corner, you will find the kinds of works you were seeking.”

  Claire rose from her seat. Her chair was tucked away in a corner, nestled between two bookshelves. She wanted to reveal herself while the butler was still present. Much as she wished to spend more time with Mr Hawkins, it would be unwise to run across him unsupervised. If Grace or her aunt caught wind of it, Claire was sure they would blow it out of proportion. They might even suspect Claire of having orchestrated the meeting, alone, purposefully!

  “Mr Hawkins!” Claire found her voice rising as she emerged from her hiding space. Mr Arnold, who had looked set to leave, now stood in place, realising that he could not leave Claire alone with the gentleman. “I did not expect you to be finished settling into your quarters so soon.”

  “When one’s prized possessions in life amount to nothing more than paper and ink, it can be a very easy thing to settle into new quarters. Unlike Lady Helen, I do not travel with an over-abundance of clothes, jewels, and creature comforts. Aside from a few shirts, trousers and jackets, I brought nothing but my work with me.”

  “I see,” Claire nodded several times together, pleased with Mr Hawkins’ words. Moment by moment, he was proving himself to be everything she believed a true writer and poet should be: dedicated to his craft and unmoved by the trappings of the world. Still, it would do her no good to tell him she thought so. She twined her fingers together and her eyes failed to meet his, as she realised, she had no idea how to continue the conversation.

  “… Tell me, do you frequent the library at Holdenwood Manor often, Miss Curtis?” Mr Hawkins threw her a lifeline and Claire took it at once.