The Perfect Mistress (12 page)

“What do you think, Julia?” Lady Redwell asked her friend.

“I think it is most interesting,” Julia said thoughtfully. His gaze caught hers and he realized she was hard-pressed to keep from grinning.

“And you, my lord?” Lady Redwell tilted her head in a flirtatious manner. He had already noted, much to his surprise, Lady Redwell was unfailingly flirtatious. “What do you think?”

“I agree with Lady Winterset,” he said. “It is an interesting idea. Even somewhat provocative.”

“I think it’s extraordinary.” Miss Nelson fairly bubbled with enthusiasm. “I only wish I had thought of it. Don’t you think so, Mr. Ellsworth?”

“In theory perhaps.” The author chose his words with care. “I would never denigrate anyone’s idea, as an idea is simply a place to begin. One never knows when an idea, no matter how unique, might become the basis for a literary work. However, I do think there are some ideas that are perhaps not as conducive …”

Julia leaned toward Harrison and spoke under her breath. “You have no idea what they’re talking about, do you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Perhaps only to me. And perhaps only because you agreed with me.” Amusement shone in her eyes. “In truth I think it’s a dreadful idea. I would never wish to read poetry about this year’s cricket season.”

He frowned in a mock serious manner. “For many people it is an extremely passionate subject and well suited to verse.”

She laughed, a delightful sound that echoed in his blood. “Perhaps, but I cannot imagine anything quite so absurd as
Ode to a Winning Batsman
.”

“Or
Sonnets from the Portuguese Cricketers
?”

Julia stared. “My lord, was that a joke?”

“I think it might have been,” he said in an overly somber manner and again she laughed. Yes, indeed, this was going well.

He had decided in the past week that it would not be enough to merely charm her, he would become her friend. She would be much more willing to turn over the memoirs to a friend rather than someone she detested. Yes, they would become friends and he would acquire the memoirs, remaining friends afterward because it would be most ungentlemanly to do otherwise. Besides, there was something about the woman that made him want to befriend her. According to Veronica, Julia was all alone in the world, with no family to speak of. Regardless of her intelligence or independent nature she was still only a woman. And what woman couldn’t, on occasion, use the advice and guidance of a gentleman like himself, a friend, who was much better versed than she in the ways of the world and in particular, finance? The very idea appealed to his sense of chivalry. He quite liked this plan even if he wasn’t entirely sure how to accomplish it.

He’d never realized before but he didn’t, in truth, have friends. He had never especially considered them necessary. Besides, until his death, he’d had Charles who was as much a friend as a brother. Oh, he had a fair number of acquaintances, gentlemen he would converse with at his club and greet in passing on the street. Now, watching Veronica and Julia and Lady Redwell, he wondered if he wasn’t missing something although, of course, they were women and friendships between men were a decidedly different thing.

“It is my considered opinion, with talent and skill,” the poet across from him began in a pompous manner, “one can produce excellent if not exceptional …”

“Do you like poetry, Lady Winterset?” Harrison asked.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, of course. Don’t you?”

“I am fond of Shakespeare’s sonnets.” He thought for a moment. “’Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’That is fairly straightforward. One understands exactly what Shakespeare is saying. However, I must confess, for the most part I much prefer prose to poetry. Most poetry is too obscure, too vague if you will for my liking.” He nodded at the poet across from him. “I daresay any poetry he might compose about the cricket season would have us scratching our heads at the conclusion wondering who had won and who had lost.”

She smiled. “Probably.” She tilted her head and considered him. “But you consider poetry vague?”

“All that imagery, one thing being said when something entirely different is meant.” He nodded. “I do indeed.”

“You find …” She thought for a moment. “’She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that’s best of dark and bright meets in her aspect and her eyes vague’?”

For a moment he debated the merits of honesty. “Not entirely, and admittedly the words are very nice, but why can’t he simply say she is the loveliest woman he has ever seen?” His gaze met hers. “And everything he’s ever thought was wonderful, everything he’s ever wanted but never knew he wanted before now, is right there in her presence. In her eyes.”

She stared at him for a long moment and he couldn’t believe he had said such a thing. What had gotten into him? At last she shook her head slightly and smiled. “I believe, my lord, he said exactly that.” She drew a deep breath. “You are not a romantic, are you?”

“I’ve really never thought about it.” He shook his head. “But I fear I am too practical and rational to appreciate the language of poetry.”

“What a shame,” she murmured.

“Perhaps.” He cast her a rueful smile. “That too may be one of my flaws.”

“Is there no poetry other than Shakespeare’s you appreciate?”

“I will confess,” he said slowly, “there is a line or two that through the years has lingered in my mind.”

“Oh, do tell.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I promise to keep your secret. That you are not so practical and rational as you appear. And even you can see the beauty in something as vague as poetry.”

Again his gaze met hers and he ignored the voice in the back of his head that said this was too revealing and too fraught with meaning. “’How sad and bad and mad it was—But then, how it was sweet.’”

She raised a brow. “Robert Browning.”

“It’s a favorite of my father’s and it has always struck something of a chord in me.”

“And I believe I was wrong.”

“Oh.”

A teasing light shone in her eye. “There might be a touch of the romantic about you after all.”

“And is that a good thing?”

She smiled slowly. “Yes, I think it is.”

“… and I would dearly love for you to read my work,” Miss Nelson said to Mr. Ellsworth.

“I should like nothing better,” Mr. Ellsworth said in a most gallant manner even though the look in his eyes said the man would rather have his thumbs cut off.

Miss Nelson gasped. “Even better, I have brought a few pages.” She glanced around the table. “I could read some of it tonight.”

The question hung in the air for an endless moment.

“I’m sure we would all be delighted.” Harrison’s manner was every bit as gallant as Mr. Ellsworth’s and every bit as feigned.

“Delighted,” Portia said under her breath.

“That was very kind of you,” Julia said softly for his ears alone.

He looked at her and shrugged. “It was nothing, really.”

“You have made her evening a success.” She cast him an approving smile. “Possibly at our expense.”

“No doubt we shall bear up admirably,” he said in a no-nonsense manner. His actions were little more than polite. Any gentleman worth the name would do the same. Or at least should. Julia was giving him entirely too much credit. Still, he would take it.

A peal of laughter sounded from the far end of the table and they glanced in that direction. Miss Waverly and her parents were seated some distance away but even from here it was apparent she disapproved of the unrestrained expression of mirth. As any proper lady would.

“She is lovely, isn’t she?”

“Miss Waverly?” he asked, his gaze still on the young woman. He had met her earlier in the evening and had immediately decided to call on her. Whether Veronica intended it or not, and knowing Veronica she knew exactly what she was doing, Miss Waverly appeared to be everything he was looking for in an appropriate match.

“Yes.”

“Indeed she is.” He studied the young woman for a moment more. Excellent posture, flawless manners, she did indeed look to be quite perfect. Abruptly he remembered his own manners and turned back to Julia. “My apologies, Lady Winterset.”

“Whatever for?” she said coolly.

“It’s most impolite to …” To ignore the lady he hoped to make his friend for the one who might become his wife. “To stare.”

“No apologies necessary. You weren’t staring at me after all.” She smiled in a pleasant yet remote manner and returned her attention to the quail on her plate and the conversation across from her.

Damnation. Everything had been going so well. He groped for something to say but he’d never been good at idle conversation.

“… even, so, I must confess a preference for light opera,” Lady Redwell said. “Lady Smithson and I attended the Mikado some months ago and we thought …”

“Do you like theater, Lady Winterset?” Harrison asked.

“Yes, I do.” She sighed. “Quite a lot really but I rarely seem to attend. Do you?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“I thought it might be too frivolous for you.”

“Not at all,” he said quickly, although in truth he did find some offerings somewhat frivolous. “And you like poetry.”

“Yes, my lord.” She considered him for a moment. “I like poetry, I like to read. I have always had a fondness for Shakespeare but I like novels as well. I enjoy art, galleries and museums. I paint and sketch a little but not very well. I enjoy the out of doors, especially at this time of year. My husband used to take a walk in Hyde Park every morning before he went to his office. I often accompanied him. Now, I find I still enjoy a morning constitutional although I admit I am not able to do it every day. Now then.” Annoyance sounded in her voice. “Is there anything else you wish to know about me?”

He ignored the question and drew his brows together. “You walk alone in the park every morning?”

“I’m not entirely alone. You would be surprised at the number of people who are about at that hour.”

“I must disagree, Lady Winterset. I myself ride or walk in the park nearly every morning and I encounter no more than a handful of people.”

“You are probably right. I am usually engaged in my own thoughts so I pay no real notice.”

“Lady Winterset.” He leaned closer. “Do you think a woman walking alone in the park is wise?”

“I have yet to have any difficulties.” She shrugged. “The sun is well up and I feel perfectly safe.”

“Still.” He paused. “Do you have a dog, Lady Winter-set?”

“A dog?” She shook her head. “No.”

“You should consider getting one if you insist on walking alone in the park.”

“I suppose.” She cast him a grudging smile. “I always wanted a dog as a child.”

“You are no longer a child, and if you want a dog you should have one.”

“I understand they are superb companions.” She studied him. “Do you have a dog?”

“There are dogs at the estate in the country but they are hounds and used for hunting. Working dogs.” He shook his head. “Not pets. It is difficult to keep a dog in town.”

“I see.”

She sounded distinctly disappointed.

“I don’t have a dog at the moment but I am considering acquiring one soon,” he lied. A furry, messy, problem of a beast. He snorted to himself. When Hades froze.

“Are you?” She arched a delicate brow. “What breed?”

“Breed?” He searched his mind for a breed of dog and couldn’t think of one. “I have not decided. Something substantial I should think.”

“Not a lap dog then?” Amusement danced in her eyes as if she knew he was lying, although why shouldn’t he have a dog? He did enjoy the dogs at the estate. And a man with a dog was surely much more likable than a man who thought a dog was a great deal of trouble.

“Most certainly not.” He paused. “Perhaps, when I have my dog, you will allow me to accompany you on your morning walk one day.”

She glanced past him toward the other end of the table. “Perhaps you should be asking Miss Waverly that question.”

“I am asking you.”

“Because you wish to be friends?”

“Exactly.” He nodded. “And because I think a woman shouldn’t be walking alone in the park. It’s not safe.”

“Because a woman is unable to take care of herself?”

“Even to a capable woman of independent nature I don’t think that can be debated,” he said without thinking

“Not only on walks alone but in other matters as well?”

“Women, my dear Lady Winterset, no matter how competent, are still merely women.” Even as he answered he knew it was a mistake. Still, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was as if his words had a life of their own. “A woman needs a guiding hand as it were from a husband or father or brother or—”

“Friend?”

“Yes,” he said staunchly.

“Then a woman should choose her friends wisely, don’t you agree?”

“Without question.”

She smiled in a pleasant but dismissive manner and pointedly turned away to join in the conversation on her other side.

He pressed his lips together in annoyance. He should have known better than to speak his mind on the topic of the capabilities of the fair sex. He wasn’t an idiot after all, or perhaps he was. But he had no intention of lying to further the cause of friendship. And damn it all, he would get a dog.

Through the final two courses of dinner, his attempts to engage her in further conversation were stymied at every turn. If he ventured a question, she would respond politely then return to chat with other guests. She busied herself with involvement in the discussions on her other side or across the table. Still, it did give him the opportunity to study her. She was indeed dreadfully intelligent and far too clever to do what she didn’t think was wise simply because of friendship. This was not going to be easy.

Still, he considered the evening at least moderately successful thus far. Even if he hadn’t yet managed to pull Julia and Mr. Ellsworth into a discussion of the risky nature of publishing, there would certainly be time later between the readings from one poet to the next. And while he hadn’t planned on it, if Miss Nelson’s work was as questionable in quality as Veronica had implied, it might help his case.