To Romance a Scoundrel

by Rosie Wynter

  “Yes, I do.” Once again, Claire found her answer made too readily, and she gave a flustered smile. “I… I am quite the avid reader. In fact, it is rare indeed that I am found without a book clutched in my hands. Isn’t that right, Mr Arnold?” Claire looked to the butler, who stood nearby, eager to receive some form of validation.

  “Indeed, Miss Curtis is a most prodigious reader,” the man said. “In the few weeks since her arrival at Holdenwood Manor, I think she has read at least half the volumes of prose and poetry on the shelves.”

  Claire smiled and pulled back the lock of hair that had fallen over her left ear. She managed to bring her gaze up from the floor, looking for any sign of approval from the poet before her.

  “That is quite a boast. I am most happy to hear that Holdenwood Manor’s library receives such patronage.” The gentleman reached out his hand towards the nearest bookshelf. He ran his fingers over the spines of a few books. It was a reverent act, almost like stroking a favourite pet. Mr Hawkins seemed to lose himself in the act for a time. At last, however, his attention returned to Claire, and he took a deep breath.

  “Since touring the stately homes of Lady Helen’s friends, I have had the privilege of visiting several very fine libraries. It grieved me to see how so many of the books were covered in dust. So many lords and ladies show a keen interest in collecting books, but very few actually look to read them properly.”

  Claire nodded, feeling she understood the gentleman’s regret and sadness. “I am sure such a thing would grieve me too. I must confess, I always feel very sorry for those who cannot find enough time for books and stories in their life.”

  “It is truly pitiable,” Mr Hawkins agreed. “Even worse, though, are those who have no real intention or desire to read at all. Too many noblemen like to keep fashionable books merely for the impression that they give of learnedness.”

  “Well, I hope you can put your mind at ease here at Holdenwood Manor and know that the books on the shelves are well cared for and read.” Claire laughed, trying hard to keep the hint of nervousness out of her voice.

  “More than this. I am happy to find myself in the company of another soul with a real passion for words. Tell me, do you write at all, Miss Curtis?”

  “I wish I could claim such talent, but alas, no. I have written a few inconsequential stories in my youth, but never devoted myself to writing. I much prefer to read what others have written.”

  “I’m sure your talent is greater than you allow. I would quite like to hear of these stories you wrote in the past. Perhaps there is more value to them than you know.”

  Claire blushed. “It is good of you to say so and perhaps I might tell you a few of the ideas I have had for novels in times past. I assure you, however, your mind will be better appeased with some of the books already here.”

  Eager to steer the conversation away from her own words and work, Claire moved over to the shelves where her favourite plays and novels were kept. “Some of the works here were specifically brought in because my sister knows I admire them,” Claire explained. “If you were looking for something to keep you entertained during your stay, this is where you might want to look.”

  Claire took a step back and let Mr Hawkins peruse the shelves at his leisure. As the man inspected the various books, Claire caught sight of Mr Arnold who had remained with them. The man stood at stiff attention, happy to remain with them as long as was necessary. Still, Claire did not wish to keep him from his work.

  “Perhaps, when you have found a work you like, we can go down to the gardens together to read? I am sure Lady Blackmore would be happy to join us. She likes doing embroidery out in the sunshine.”

  Mr Hawkins straightened up after inspecting one of the lower shelves. He had yet to pull a single book out from its place, and Claire frowned to see him empty-handed. He touched a book, read the spine and pushed it back in.

  “Does nothing there strike your fancy, Sir?”

  “On the contrary,” he replied, lips spread in a wide smile. “I account many of the works here amongst my favourites. I know a few so well, I might even be able to recite them back to you.”

  That remark set off a definite thrill inside Claire, and she drew a step closer to the man. “Really? You know them that well? I have never known another man who read the works of the romantics so earnestly.”

  “Well, I am happy to be the man who breaks the rule,” Mr Hawkins laughed. His eyes moved listlessly between the titles on the shelves, the smile on his face never dimming for even a moment. “I will admit, I did not know what to expect when Lady Helen told me we were to see another one of her friends. I am, however, most glad my path brought me here now.” He turned his attention from the books around him, and his deep, searching eyes locked into Claire’s.

  “I can already tell we shall become firm friends you and I… I wonder, might I prevail upon you to peruse a few of my own poems and works? I would love to be given critique from a true reader.”

  Claire sucked in a breath, anticipation rushing through her body at the thought of being able to read the words put on paper by a real poet.

  “I would love to!” She said at once. “Please, if you would fetch me some pieces to read, I will find Cath… I mean Lady Blackmore and meet you in the gardens presently.”

  Chapter 7

  Mr Hawkins carried a wealth of works with him. His array of poems, stories, essays, observations, and diary pieces formed an inexhaustible collection. Claire devoured the banquet of words with relish, and Mr Hawkins always made sure to deliver fresh pages of work for her to pore over.

  Though always in the company of Holdenwood Manor’s other residents, Claire was often lost in her own private world with Mr Hawkins. Either in the gardens, drawing room or parlour, the two would sit at a table and exchange thoughts on the poet’s work. From time to time, others would join them, but they never stayed for very long. Whenever Catherine, Aunt Lynch, or Grace read one of Mr Hawkins’ works, they would invariably make a comment about it being ‘good’ and end their critique and appreciation there. Claire was sure her relatives and friends meant well, but it was incomprehensible for her to see the way they casually brushed Mr Hawkins’ work aside. It was as if none of them understood or cared about how much thought and soul had been put into the creation of each wondrous page.

  Cromford and Dalton did not read even one piece of Mr Hawkins’ work. Both were busy men, and Claire could forgive her brother-in-law. Still, she found it difficult to accept the earl’s snub of the poet’s work. She did not even fully understand why this was happening. When she thought about things logically, she knew that the earl was more pressed for time than Cromford was. The work on the west wing had been stalled by Lady Helen’s stay, but this did not reduce the earl’s workload. He had to liaise with builders from the local towns and villages. Pressed to a tighter schedule, Lord Dalton needed more hands to ensure the project was completed on schedule, after Lady Helen left.

  There were other matters that also claimed his attention. His steward wrote daily to advise Lord Dalton on the goings-on at his home estate, and the earl often had to work long into the night to ensure he remained fully appraised of the ongoing developments on his land and holdings.

  Added to all of the earl’s duties, there was one more compelling reason why he had not had the opportunity to read Mr Hawkins’ work – Lady Helen. The old dowager was a nightmare, unable to stop her barbed tongue from making a displeasing comment whenever she shared the room with the earl.

  “Joining us at last from your daily toil?” The woman had remarked on the third evening of her stay. She swirled the liquid in her port glass with practised finesse, a strange kind of smile on her face. “I would dearly love to know what keeps you so wrapped up all day on the west wing. Could it possibly be you are struggling to find an original idea to make the renovation truly your own, or are you trying to look for an excuse to avoid my sound critique of your work?”

  Claire took a deep breath and clutched
the poem she had been reading a little tighter. She looked to Lord Dalton – her heart beating faster with worry at how he might receive Lady Helen’s scorn. She noticed Mr Hawkins hang his head a little. Claire felt quite sure the poet must have been feeling a little embarrassed, himself. Lady Helen was his patron, and he owed her everything. Still, it must have been a hardship to be indebted to so outspoken a woman. She had moments of civility and could be very pleasing to talk to, but she had a manner about her, when in company, that Claire didn’t like. As much as she admired the woman for taking in a talented artist out of the goodness of her heart, Claire felt she would never become friends with the lady.

  “It has been some time since we last saw you, Lord Dalton,” Claire said, somewhat hurriedly. “Pray, will you not sit with us here for a time?”

  “I thank you, Miss Curtis, but I would not wish to distract you from your reading.” The earl looked set to move to an empty chair in the farther corner of the room with his papers. Claire almost left him to it, but she did not wish to see the man relegated to the sidelines on account of Lady Helen.

  “Please do not feel you would be a distraction or unwelcome,” Claire said, patting the spare chair for emphasis. “I am sure Mr Hawkins must be quite sick of my observations on his work and would welcome a fresh perspective.”

  “Now, Miss Curtis, I could never tire of your praise.” Mr Hawkins’ words were not helpful in Claire’s present predicament, and she shot the man an almost pleading look. The poet seemed to pick up on her silent message and drew a deep breath. “Of course, it is important to receive a range of opinions on one’s work. So, if you would favour me, I would be quite happy to hear your thoughts on my poetry. In turn, I might ask to look over your designs for Holdenwood Manor, if you will allow it.”

  “I would caution against that,” Lady Helen said from the far side of the room but was left without a comment.

  Lord Dalton continued to appear stiff as he accepted the seat Claire proffered him. His eyes glanced over the mess of papers before him. “Is there perhaps a work you might recommend me to begin with, Miss Curtis? A particular favourite of yours?”

  Claire bit her bottom lip as she scanned the disorganised mess. She was just on the verge of reaching out for one piece when she was cut off.

  “Perhaps this will be to your liking,” Mr Hawkins said. He rifled through the stacks of papers and pulled out a rather small and plain verse that Claire remembered having read a few days before. It was certainly not what she would have picked for Lord Dalton.

  “Observations of a Tuscan Vineyard?” The earl read the title aloud, raising a brow as he did so.

  “You are an architect. I believe you might prefer a piece that explores the beauty of the land.” Mr Hawkins’ explanation seemed reasonable, but Claire was not satisfied.

  “It is a good work to be sure, but you yourself said it was more a collection of notes you might look to use in other works. Why not show the earl, ‘Tears of the Wine-Press’? That was the most beautiful work and a most accomplished tale.”

  “Well, I do not wish to trouble the earl with so long a read after so long a day,” Mr Hawkins explained.

  “There is still an hour until dinner… unless the poem is the length of a bible, I am sure I can manage it.” Although the earl must have been looking to encourage the poet, Claire could not help feeling the tone of his voice at that moment was somehow combative.

  Mr Hawkins moved through the pile of papers again, this time pulling out three sheets with his poem written on both sides. He handed the poem to Lord Dalton without saying a word, and then turned his attention back to Claire.

  “While the earl looks over that one, why don’t we discuss what you have been reading? I noticed that subtle smile of yours light up your face as you read a few passages.”

  Claire felt heat rise to her face, and her eyes looked downward at the marquetry on the tabletop. Mr Hawkins’ sharp gaze was often enough to fluster her. Still, she noticed her feeling of embarrassment doubled to have both him and Lord Dalton looking at her.

  From time to time, the nearness of Mr Hawkins drove Claire to distraction. As she pointed to various sections of his work, commenting on certain lines and features, she could feel his eyes moving over her. Sometimes, it felt as if his attention was not on the page at all. Yet, any time Claire thought he was not paying proper attention to her, the poet would prove her wrong. He seemed to know his work inside and out, and knew exactly which lines she spoke of, without having to look at his script.

  Claire continued to make her comments. She stalled several times, struggling against the growing lump in her throat. Mr Hawkins’ closeness was bringing warmth to her entire body. She began to notice how his hand on the table lingered so close to hers. From time to time, the tips of his fingers seemed to brush against her wrist. She tried to hold her nerve, not wishing to be seen to flinch or draw attention to the closeness. More distracting even than this, was the way in which Mr Hawkins now spoke to her. He seemed to have picked up on her desire not to be overheard by the entire room. There was nothing at all untoward in the nature of their conversation. Still, the act in itself was more intimate, and sent a thrill down Claire’s spine. She might have even enjoyed it a little more, were it not for the knowledge that Lord Dalton was sitting close by.

  The earl seemed to read at a steady pace. He did not rush the long form poem he had been given, and he seemed to be alive to the process of engaging with the work. This did not mean he was absorbed in the words, however. From time to time, his gaze snapped upward, looking at Claire and Mr Hawkins both, as they talked on the other side of the table. Whenever Claire felt the earl’s eyes on her, she was sure to offer him a nod or a kind smile, which she hoped he would find reassuring. She wanted the earl to feel that he was welcome in the circle, and that she and Mr Hawkins were not looking to exclude him.

  “Well, there we go.” Lord Dalton returned the poem to the table, rubbing his jaw as he stared at the manuscript from a greater distance.

  Claire used the earl’s sudden declaration as an excuse to put a distance between herself and Mr Hawkins. While she had quite enjoyed the thrill of talking with the man, she knew there were others around who might pass judgement on her, should they notice their flirtation.

  “Sir, did the poem not move you?” There was a note of hopefulness in Claire’s voice. Her brow knotted as she tried to discern any hint of feeling from the man. His expression was closed and unresponsive.

  “It is a suitably sad tale of love lost, and happiness denied,” the earl said. He folded his arms and stared down at the manuscript. “Perhaps I am projecting too much of my own opinions onto the work, but I do not think I agree with the wine-presser’s outlook on the world.”

  “Really?” Claire was somewhat dismayed. “You did not think it moving how the man held out hope that the woman who spurned him would return to him? Was not their reunion at the end of their lives a fitting end, and proof that love – true love – will never fail to win out?”

  The earl shifted his weight in his chair and cocked his head a little to the side. “The man in the poem is in love with a girl who rejects him in favour of a man who offers her riches and security. Rather than accept his loss and look to find new happiness and purpose in his life, the man stubbornly continues to work the winepress for twenty years, in the hope that one day she will return.”

  “Yes!” Claire had to pay attention that her voice didn’t become too loud. “Because he knows that if he leaves, then she might not find him and he does not wish to miss her return when, at last, she comes to her senses.”

  The earl nodded, but it was not a nod of comprehension. It seemed more as if he was just acknowledging Claire’s view.

  “It is a romantic sentiment to be sure, but I cannot approve of the wine-presser’s actions. He watches the woman he loves pass him over for another man and, rather than accept his defeat with grace and dignity, he decides to embark on a foolish quest to win back her heart. He waste
s the best years of his life toiling in the winepress, turning down promotion and the chance to increase his lot in life.” The earl took a deep breath before continuing. “Meanwhile, what is the love of his life doing? The poem gives little reference to what she did doing the years the wine-presser toiled away to prove his devotion to her. At a guess, she lived in wealth and luxury. I assume she enjoyed the pleasures the man she married was able to give her, and only returned to the vineyard because her husband was dead, or else she had become bored of him. Regardless, she seems to be quite a fickle creature. If her devotion and love for the wine-presser were not strong enough to keep her from leaving his side when they were youths in love, why should the man still wish to gain her heart when he is old, and his life’s span spent?”

  Claire frowned, her eyes now moving to Mr Hawkins. The poet ran a hand through his mess of red hair, and his eyes seemed to wander to the far side of the room, away from Lord Dalton.

  “Do you not think you are perhaps a little harsh?” Claire asked. “There is a redemptive power to the tale, which I think is quite charming. It is a reminder that true and steadfast love is better than all the gold and riches in the world.”

  “Perhaps so,” the earl conceded. “Still, if that is the objective of the work, I believe some time must be spent in the poem looking into the life of the wine-presser’s lover. If the message is that steadfast devotion is better than greed, perhaps we should see how the aristocrat she married mistreats her or treats her like some ornament. There is an entire question mark over her life that makes it difficult for me to feel sympathy for her.”

  “Well, I thank you for your words on that, Sir.” Mr Hawkins reached forward and was quick to gather up the pages of the poem the earl had just read. He took a few moments to caress the paper. Claire sucked in a breath. She could not help but feel that inviting the earl to look over the poet’s work had been a bad idea after all. She hadn’t expected Lord Dalton to attack Mr Hawkins’ work in such a manner.