Rhyme and Reason (8 page)

As that slow, bewitching smile tilted his lips, she forced her gaze away. Was she all about in the head? Even if she were skimble-skamble enough to entangle her life with his, this was the very worst time. She had to deal with the vexing problem of Marquis de la Cour.

Curious gazes followed them through the open doors. Tendrils of fog oozed in the early dusk. The damp aroma of dew was intoxicating, but Emily ignored it. She withdrew her hand from Lord Wentworth’s arm and faced him. She tried not to be disconcerted by the fact that her eyes were level with his lips.

Raising them, she asked in her coolest tone, “Why did you lie to me? You told me Papa had won at the card table.”

“So he did, on numerous occasions.” He smiled as he leaned against a large concrete planter. “I, on the other hand, won on many more. Lady Luck was his companion during the evening, but she turned her favor on me through the night.”

“You intentionally misled me!”

“I was honest with you.”

“You said there was no need for me to even Papa’s accounts with you.”

His lips straightened. “No matter what you have heard of me, Miss Talcott, I do not call on pretty brunettes to dun them for their fathers’ debts.”

“I was offering to pay them.”

“Do you do that often?”

She tightened her fringed shawl around her shoulders. The night was not cold, but his voice was. “I manage my father’s household. All of its expenses are my concern.”

“What a paragon you are!”

“It’s a daughter’s place to do what I do.”

“By the elevens, you are as dutiful as I have heard! Sponsoring your sister, although she can be only a few years your junior, during the Season and watching your father’s household as close as wax. What sort of life is that for a young woman?”

“My life is mine to spend as I please.”

“Or squander.”

“Am I the one squandering my life, my lord?” she returned with heat. “I have my friends and my family and a reputation of which I am proud.”

Lord Wentworth suddenly grinned. “Now I understand your loathing of my company. You fear I will taint your sister’s chances for a good match. I must assure you, Miss Talcott, that my reputation, as is the case with most reputations, I have discovered, is based more on fiction than fact.”

“You wish me to believe that you despise playing cards?”

He laughed. “Not in the least, but I enjoy other facets of life as much. I know it is said that I would as lief play cards than eat or—” His chuckle became softer. “Excuse me, Miss Talcott. My crude language proves I’ve been too long away from the gentle company of a winsome lady.”

Emily looked at the fan tied to her wrist. She found it difficult to believe that “Demon Wentworth” was this man who was as gentle as the amusement twinkling in his eyes. Was either the real Lord Wentworth, or was he trying to baffle her with the sense of humor he had warned her of when he called at Hanover Square?

“Then it would behoove you,” she said, “to recall yourself. Lady Fanning expects a certain propriety from her guests.”

“Now you are wondering why Lady Fanning invited me to her home.”

“My lord, I never—”

“No, you would never say that,” he interrupted with another chuckle, “but your eyes betray your thoughts.”

Emily decided the only way to salvage her faltering composure was to answer as boldly. “I would have guessed you find such gatherings boring,” she said.

“I have little interest in the travesties of the Season, that is true. Riding in the Park is boring. Plying the dowagers and the young misses with court-promises suits me as a saddle suits a sow. Trying to avoid covetous mamas with marriageable daughters is tiresome. I would as lief retire to the card table.” He sat on the edge of the planter and smiled. “Do you play cards, Miss Talcott?”

“I leave that to Papa.” She started to add more, but her eyes were captured by his that were even with hers for the first time. Hastily, she lowered her eyes. Her heart thumped against her chest as if she had raced from Hanover Square to Hyde Park.

“That is much the pity.”

His even voice irritated her, although she was being want-witted. He was not going to apologize for lying to her, so she should put an end to this conversation.

“That is your opinion, my lord. Now I must ask you, again, to excuse me.” She folded her hands behind her back. “I must see to Miriam.”

“Another of your duties. Which ideal man has your sister chosen to ensnare before the end of the Season?”

“Really, my lord, you ask such inappropriate questions.”

He laughed. “And you avoid answering every one. I doff my cap to you, Miss Talcott, and give you warning. You should not play cards, for your countenance betrays every sentimental sentiment within you.” He stood. “Mayhap you should try your hand at rewriting the marquis’s drivel. Surely you could do no worse.”

“I leave poetry to the poets.”

He held out his hand, and she was sure her heart had stopped. Her breath caught in her throat, but her thoughts were alive with anticipation of his broad fingers touching her once more. Knowing such fantasies were unseemly, she was unable to dampen them … She did not want to dampen them.

She swallowed her gasp as Lord Wentworth reached past her and lifted the sagging branch of an azalea. “Lady Fanning could use your skill with her garden. This is hard to kill, but it appears she has managed that.”

Emily blinked. She had been a cabbage-head to think he was intrigued with her. Closing her eyes, she sighed. She was lucky he intended to be a gentleman this evening, for her thoughts were constantly wandering off in a most unladylike direction.

“Valeria tries very diligently to improve her garden,” she whispered. When he gave her an odd glance, she added in a more casual tone, “I have offered her what advice I can.”

Shaking his head, he looked down into the garden where the plants showed as little life as the stone statues. “If you want my opinion, you should suggest that Lady Fanning leave the gardening to someone with your gentle touch.” He squatted and peered under the bush. “The soil here is too dry and tasteless for this plant.”

Emily faltered, astonished anew by his obvious interest in plants. When he glanced at her, she hurried to say, “The plants get little light and rain here.”

Standing, he wiped his hands to loosen any dirt. “Something we can agree upon. Mayhap there is hope for salvaging our nascent friendship.”

“I expect my friends to be honest with me.”

He smiled as he offered his arm. There was a challenge in his voice when he said, “As I shall be from now on.”

Chapter Six

Emily tried to concentrate on the reading, but Lord Wentworth’s words intruded into her thoughts. She could not force them from her mind. Why was he intending to be a part of her life?

Or was it Papa’s life he planned to play a part in? She wanted to warn him to stay far from her father, but that would be useless. As she had told Miriam, she had no say in Papa’s choice of companions.

She found it impossible to listen to Valeria. Her friend was reading a sonnet Emily particularly disliked, especially when she thought of how many hours she had labored to make the words fit together. She winced as Valeria stumbled on a word. It was not Valeria’s fault, but the rhythm of the line.

She was too aware of Lord Wentworth standing at the back of the room, his arms folded over his chest, no expression on his face. He could have been one of the statues in the garden. His assurances that he enjoyed poetry had sounded hollow. Or had she wanted them to sound that way? If she could discount him as nothing more than a gamester, it would be easier to ignore her pleasure when he sought her out.

Silk rustled behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder as a quivering hand grasped her arm. She stared into Miriam’s red-ringed eyes.

“Emily, I can’t stay here,” Miriam whispered. She glanced toward the front of the room where Valeria was accepting the polite applause.

Clapping along with the others, Emily saw Mr. Simpkins was standing behind Valeria. The man never seemed willing to emerge from the shadow of Valeria’s beauty. She sighed. This evening was taking a bad turn all around.

“Get your bonnet, Miriam, and I shall make our farewells.”

“Thank you.”

Wanting to urge her sister to put aside her foolish dreams, Emily knew how silly that was. She had dreams of her own. Being free of the responsibility of her family and being able to write the book on gardens was a future she might savor only in her dreams. Patting her sister’s hand, she rose as Miriam went to collect their bonnets.

She eased along the row of chairs and started toward Valeria. When a glass was held out to her, blocking her way, she looked past it to see Lord Wentworth’s smile.

“Drink with me to our delight at the cessation of that mewling mess of words,” he said.

“If you do not like the poems, you need not have stayed!”

“There is no reason to leave until my companions at the card table do.” Chuckling, he added, “Allow me to join you on your journey which seems so incredibly crucial.”

“Crucial?”

“You were acting as single-minded as Simpkins when he is in pursuit of Lady Fanning. Your gaze focused on the floor, hands at your sides, and a frown on your face.”

Emily could not keep from laughing when he aped Graham Simpkins’s mannerisms with ease.

“Much better,” he said, straightening and offering her the glass again. “If you do not wish to drink to the end of the readings, then let us drink to something else.”

“What would that be?”

“Friendship.”

“Ours?” she asked boldly.

His eyes crinkled in his bronzed face. “Why not? Unless you think it would be a waste of good champagne.”

“A waste?” She tapped her glass against his. “Anything is possible, my lord.”

Taking a sip, he said, “Almost anything. I find it unlikely I will ever be a fan of the marquis’s poetry.”

Emily fought to keep her smile in place. Why did he have to speak constantly of his distaste for her work? How she wished she could enlighten him, but the momentary pleasure of seeing his shock would come at the cost of her reputation and Miriam’s.

“I hope your friend appreciated the book you bought,” she said quietly.

“Yes.” He held her gaze as he took another drink.

Blast this man! He had a facile gift for words, even when he used a single one, that she longed for.

Raising her own glass, she said, “You need not worry, my lord. I have no interest in prying the name of the recipient from you. I was simply inquiring.”

“I am not worried, Miss Talcott.” He held out his arm. “If I were to buy a gift for an incognita, it would not be something as chaste as a book of bird-witted poems.”

“Chaste? Half the ladies in the room had rising color in their cheeks when Valeria read.”

He drew her fingers within his arm. “And most of the men were trying not to chuckle, knowing they had said something as weak-minded to their convenient in order to court her favors.”

“You are outrageous!”

“So I have been told on numerous occasions.” He bent toward her as they walked across the room. “And you find it most amusing, Miss Talcott.”

“Yes.”

When she added nothing more, as he had, Lord Wentworth laughed. “A bittock of my own medicine?”

“I prefer to think of it as honesty.”

“That is very important to you, isn’t it?”

Emily chided herself. She knew better than to speak out of hand, but she did so over and over in his company. “Of course, honesty is important to me. I—”

“Emily!”

Sure she had never been more pleased to see her friend, Emily turned to take Valeria’s out-stretched hands. “A wonderful reading, Valeria.”

“Thank you.” She flashed a brilliant smile at the viscount. “Are you enjoying the reading, Lord Wentworth?”

“As much as Simpkins, I would say.”

Emily had not noted Mr. Simpkins lurking, as he was so often, behind Valeria.

“My dear Emily,” Valeria said, giving Mr. Simpkins no chance to respond, “you must read for us now. In French!” Her smile broadened. “She speaks it with rare flair, my lord. Did you know?”

“As Miss Talcott and I are the newest of friends, there is much I do not know of her.” Lord Wentworth finished his champagne and put the glass on a nearby table. “I had thought she might be more familiar with Latin.”

“Latin?” asked Emily.

“To know the scientific names of your plants.”

Glad for the course the conversation was taking, Emily forced the tension from her shoulders. “Fortunately I need not know more than which ones prefer shade and when to water.”

“You underestimate your skill.”

Valeria, who never could bear to be left out of any conversation, interjected, “But will you read one of the marquis’s poems for us in French, Emily?”

“Yes, please do,” Lord Wentworth said. “It should be most enjoyable.”

Emily shook her head. “I came to tell you that Miriam and I will be taking our leave.”

“So early?” Valeria’s lips became a perfect pout. “But why?”

She glanced at Mr. Simpkins, who seemed to be intent on the toes of his shoes. Resisting her yearning to scowl at him and ask him why he treated her sister so basely, she faltered. The truth would hurt Miriam; to lie would hurt Valeria. What a bumble-bath!

A footman rushed up to Valeria, who bent to listen to what the servant had to say. Her eyes grew as round as her mouth.

“Impossible!” she gasped.

“What is it?” asked Lord Wentworth.

Valeria flushed, grew pale, then regained her normal color. “Please wait here. I must tend to this without delay.”

“Valeria—”

“Emily, please do not leave until I come back.” She grasped Emily’s arms. “Promise me!”

Unsettled by Valeria’s fervor, she nodded. She watched as her friend rushed away in the wake of the footman. The orchestra in the corner of the room began to play.

Lord Wentworth raised a single brow, but said nothing when Mr. Simpkins mumbled something under his breath and scurried away.

Not sure what to do, Emily sipped on her champagne.

“Would you like more?”