Rhyme and Reason (4 page)

“Mayhap because you know nothing of me, but what rumor spouts.” Lord Wentworth’s smile was matched by the mirth in his gray eyes. “Allow me to complete the task that brought me here, then I will ask you to indulge me with a tour of your garden.” From behind his back, he pulled out a crumpled hat. “Your father’s, I assume. I found it in my carriage this morning.”

She took the battered beaver and silenced her groan. This was Papa’s newest hat, and it would not be cheap to have this damage repaired. “Thank you for returning it, my lord. You continue to increase my debt to you.”

He chuckled. “What a charming turn of events!”

“My lord?”

“To have a lovely brunette in debt to me.” He tapped her nose, and she pulled back, aghast, at his outrageous motion. Her astonishment became chagrin when he added, “The splotch of soil right there adds charming color to your face, Miss Talcott.”

When she spun to peek into the pier glass over the mantel, she could not keep her eyes from straying from the bit of earth on her nose to the tall man behind her. His smile dared her to chide him for acting like an ill-mannered beef-head. He said nothing, simply handed her a handkerchief.

Dabbing it against her nose and cheek, she murmured, “Thank you.”

“Mayhap my small kindness will help mitigate some of your debt to me. I own that I find it most uncomfortable to have you believe that you owe me a duty.”

Emily faced him, although she wished she could keep her back to him. Not that that would help, for his face was reflected in the glass. Making certain that her expression was as serene as his, she said, “Mayhap you should as lief consider it my father who owes you such a debt.”

“Excellent idea! It makes an uncomfortable beginning to any friendship to have outstanding obligations.” He offered his arm. When she hesitated to put her fingers on it, he said, “If this is an inconvenient time for you for you to give me a tour, Miss Talcott, I can return at another time to visit your garden.”

“Of course it is not inconvenient. I would be delighted to show it to you now.” She looked away before her face could reveal the truth hidden by her trite words. She found the idea of Lord Wentworth calling again troubling. As troubling as the thought that he wished to be her friend. That he would show any interest in her family beyond her father’s skill—or lack of it—at the card table surprised her.

Lord Wentworth drew her fingers within his arm as they walked together down the stairs and out onto the sunswept terrace at the back of the house. Setting her wide-brimmed straw bonnet back onto her head, although she did not have to fear the sun as her blond sister must, she motioned along a brick path to where the roses were bursting into bloom.

“How lovely!” he said.

She glanced at him, startled by the abrupt change in his voice. Gone was the cynical good humor. In its place was a genuine appreciation that amazed her anew. Nothing she had heard suggested Lord Wentworth would be interested in anything that could not be shuffled, dealt, and gambled, save for the light-skirted ladies whose names were so often attached to his. She frowned. Heeding gossip was an invitation to misconception.

He bent to look more closely at the flowers. His intense expression was so different from the ironic smile he had worn this morning.

“My special favorite is the white one,” she said quietly.

“I can see why.” He tilted the prickly vine toward him so he could better view the velvety petals which were the color of fresh cream. “The lush collection of blossoms on these bushes bespeaks the time you devote to your garden, Miss Talcott.”

“’Tis quiet here.” She took a deep breath of the air that was perfumed by the roses. “I find I sometimes need to seek a sanctuary from the hubbub of the Season.”

“That I can understand.”

She paused as they continued to walk among the flowering shrubs. “You can? Again you surprise me, my lord.”

“Why?” His smile vanished, and, as she saw the intensity in his gray eyes, she wondered if she were seeing his true feelings for the first time. “A Season in London is enough to make one all about in one’s head. I speak from experience, for I have endured too many.”

“Yet you have come to Town for this one.”

“Enjoying the flats alone is meager sport. Anyone with an ounce of skill at cards is here now, so I, by necessity, have followed.” Bending to examine the purple buds on a row of peonies, which were about to blow, he said, “I can see you have a singular gift for growing flowers, Miss Talcott. I would enjoy speaking with you about—”

“Emily!”

Emily turned. She waved to Miriam who stood in the doorway. Miriam’s tawny curls were half hidden beneath her white turban, the beads upon it matching the ones on the bodice of her Clarence-blue cambric gown. With ecru ruffles beneath her chin and at her wrists, she was the perfect picture of a lady ready to welcome her guests. Miriam raised her hand, then froze, her gaze affixed on the man beside Emily.

“Miriam, do come out and join us,” Emily said, as if every day she entertained Lord Wentworth in the garden. Her sister took only a single step onto the terrace before halting. Exasperated, Emily added, “Lord Wentworth, if you have not had the opportunity to meet my sister, allow me to introduce her.”

“I have not had the opportunity, so this will be a pleasure.” He glanced once more around the garden, and Emily thought she heard him sigh. He added nothing else as they went to where Miriam stood.

“Lord Wentworth,” Miriam said coolly, “I am surprised to see you here.”

“Are you?” he asked.

“He came to return Papa’s hat.” Emily wondered what was wrong with her sister. Miriam’s manners usually offered no cause for complaint.

“How kind of him!”

She flinched at her sister’s taut tone. Why was Miriam acting so rag-mannered? Not willing to risk a glance at the viscount, Emily said, “I thought to see you home a while ago, Miriam.”

“I was delayed because I saw this in the window of Mr. Homsby’s bookshop, and I guessed you would want a copy as soon as possible.”

Taking the book that was wrapped in plain brown paper, Emily frowned. What book would Miriam guess she wanted with such haste? Mr. Homsby had told her only a few days past that Mr. Cobbett’s book on gardening was not yet ready for publication.

Through the door, she saw Mrs. Hazlet taking the tea tray up to the sitting room. Thank goodness the housekeeper was keeping her head about her. Emily was glad one of them had during this call.

“My lord,” she said, “we would be delighted if you would join us for tea.”

“How could I say no to the company of two lovely ladies?”

Emily recoiled from his suave tone. It had been missing while they spoke in her garden, and its resurrection was as harsh as the crack of a coachee’s whip.

Letting her sister lead the way up the stairs, she tried to conceal her disquiet. Lord Wentworth was a chameleon, changing his personality before her eyes. Which was the real man—the debonair, pleasure-seeking lord or the man who had expressed such delight in something as simple as a rose? Was he either man? Or had she not met the real Damon Wentworth yet?

Her uneasiness increased when the viscount sat next to her on the settee. Miriam’s smile appeared forced as she poured the tea. Handing Lord Wentworth a cup, she held another out to Emily. The wrapped book fell from Emily’s lap as she reached for her cup.

“Allow me, Miss Talcott,” Lord Wentworth said, retrieving the book from the carpet.

“Thank you.” She choked back a gasp when his fingers brushed hers as she took the book. It was as if the sun had followed him into the house and settled in his fingertips. Liquid heat spread out from where his skin had grazed hers, pooling over her thudding heart. She hoped he could not hear its wild beat.

He touched one corner of the package. When she drew back, he frowned. “I only wish to ascertain if the book has been damaged by its fall.”

“I shall check.” Giving her fingers something to do other than tremble would be wise.

They were clumsy as she undid the string and the brown paper. Her eyes widened when she saw the gold embossed words on the royal-blue cover.
Reflections on a Summer Love
The title was repeated in French beneath the author’s name.

“Oh, my goodness!” she breathed.

“When I saw it in the bookshop window, I was sure you would want the marquis’s new book,” Miriam said with the return of her usual enthusiasm.

“Yes,” she murmured as she opened the book to look at the frontispiece. How had this book come to be in the bookstore
now
?

Lord Wentworth tilted the book to look at the spine. “This is what you were anxious to read? The latest volume of poetry by Marquis de la Cour? I would have guessed a woman of your temperament would find this drivel, Miss Talcott.”

“Why? The marquis is lauded as a favorite poet among the
ton,
” she answered in a stiff voice.
Remain calm
, she warned herself when Miriam’s eyes widened with shock at her unmannerly retort. Neither Miriam nor Lord Wentworth must guess why she found his words insulting.

No one must know the actual author of the poems published in this book. If anyone suspected the truth—that Emily Talcott struggled to write each one behind the locked door of her bedchamber—the scandal would give the élite something to prattle about for weeks. Miriam’s reputation would be ruined. If only there had been another way to raise the money to keep the household from bankruptcy and her father out of debtor’s prison, Emily never would have invented
the
passionate Frenchman who wrote of love and desire.

Lord Wentworth smiled as he thumbed through the book. “It is true
Le Beau Monde
lauds him. The incomparable Marquis de la Cour! How often have I heard this frog’s poetry venerated as a genius comparable only to Byron?”

“Frog?”

“He is French, isn’t he? The poems from his previous opus are still upon the lips of everyone in the Polite World. No doubt, even beyond. I suspect the accommodation houses in Covent Garden probably keep copies of his books for their clients, who find themselves short of praises for the
bona robes
plying their trade there.”

“Unlikely, but something I cannot deny.”

At her terse answer, he chuckled. “I beg your indulgence with my sense of humor, Miss Talcott.” He turned to Miriam who was listening in stunned silence. “And you, Miss Talcott. I own to being amused by the growing interest in this insipid poetry.”

“The marquis should be heralded as a poet of Byron’s ilk.” Miriam looked to Emily to second her words.

“Do you feel the same?” Lord Wentworth asked, also turning to Emily. He opened the book to a page at random, put his hand over his heart, and read, “
Tu es mon coeur, mon âme ma raison d’être
.” With a laugh, he asked, “Who would want to be de la Cour’s heart, soul, and reason for living?”

Emily held out her hand. When he placed the book on it, she set the thin book on the table by the silver tea service. She lifted her cup to her lips to take a soothing sip before she said something she might rue.

“I have offended you,” Lord Wentworth said, but she heard no apology in his voice. “Miss Talcott, I remain surprised, for I would not have counted you among the marquis’s myriad mindless admirers.”

“May I remind you, as you reminded me, that you know little of me?”

As if he held a wineglass as lief a cup, he raised it in a salute to both her and Miriam. His smile suggested secrets only he was privy to when he said, “I trust that is something that shall be rectified swiftly, for I suspect you and I, Miss Talcott, shall be sharing each other’s company very often in the weeks to come.”

Chapter Three

“Emily, what do you think Lord Wentworth meant by saying we would be sharing his company often in the weeks to come?”

Emily continued to wander about her light-blue bedchamber on the second floor. It was not a grand room, but was bright with early afternoon sunshine splashing across her writing table. As she paced the striped rug, she wove a familiar path between the two chairs and the high tester bed.

“Miriam, you are becoming overwrought. Lord Wentworth was simply being polite.”

“Having him about would be want-witted.”

“Yes.” She sat by her writing table. The sound of carriage wheels did not entice her to push aside the white damask curtains. If Lord Wentworth glanced back as he drove from Hanover Square, she did not want him to discover her peeking out like a naughty child.

“Miss Miriam is right, Miss Emily.”

Emily leaned her chin on her palm and avoided her abigail’s reproving gaze. Kilmartin seldom missed anything, so the gray-haired abigail must know the viscount had called on the slimmest of excuses and had joined Emily in the garden.

“I did nothing but what was required of a pleasant hostess,” she answered. Not giving either her sister or Kilmartin a chance to go on about what was now over, she asked, “Is Papa up yet?”

“I can check with Bollings,” the abigail replied, a definite tinge of dismay remaining in her voice.

“Let me,” Miriam said as she bounced to her feet. “Here. Emily, you forgot this downstairs.”

She took the slim volume of poetry and forced a smile. “Thank you.”

Her smile vanished as soon as the door closed behind Miriam. Tapping her fingers against the book’s cover, she fumed. Mr. Homsby had assured her this would not be available for several weeks. She had hoped that would give her sister time to make a fine match before Marquis de la Cour became the focus of conversation again. How could Mr. Homsby be selling a book without telling its author?

“If you wish to read, Miss Emily, I can pull the curtains back,” Kilmartin said.

“Thank you, but no.” She guessed her abigail wanted to talk about this afternoon’s caller as she put Emily’s best gown on the bed in preparation for the evening.

She opened the book and began to read, in spite of her words to the contrary. As always, she delighted in seeing her hard-won words in pretty print. How dare Lord Wentworth mock these poems! It was not Byron, but … She sighed. It was the best
she
could do.