Page 66 of Snapdragons
“From what I am discovering,” she said, “so do the Gents’ ladies.”
And easy as that, the topic was turned. She didn’t press for a larger explanation, didn’t insist she disapproved of whatever he might have been doing that resulted in an unsightly gash. She simply sat beside him, leaving her hand in his, looking entirely content with the arrangement. And he, who had never felt a significant draw toward any lady, wanted nothing more than for her to stay precisely where and as she was. He wanted to hold her hand, to listen to her talk, to watch her eyes dance when she was stifling a laugh. All the while, the scent of the sprig of snapdragons he’d asked his valet to move from his morning coat to his evening one reminded him that she thought of him even when they were apart. Unlike so many others, she didn’t forget him when he wasn’t nearby.
“Friends.” Digby stood in front of the group. “Tonight, I propose we play a parlor game.”
“We always play parlor games,” Kes pointed out.
“This time, though,” Digby said, “it will be one of my own invention.”
Oh, lud.
“We will divide into two teams. I will then draw two slips of paper containing concepts or things that must be incorporated into a poem composed by each team. The best poem will be declared the winner of that round. We will play as many rounds as we choose, and those with the most wins will be granted the right to choose tomorrow night’s after-supper entertainment.”
Penelope leaned a bit closer to Niles and asked in a whisper, “Do the Gents often compose group poetry?”
“This is the first time that I know of.” He glanced at Henri and saw a nod pass between him and Digby, confirming Niles’s suspicions. Henri was secretly a published poet and, it seemed, either wanted to practice composing or was looking for something to inspire his next poetic effort. Penelope was the only one in the group who didn’t know of Henri’s occupation. It wasn’t Niles’s secret to share.
“Is the expectation that the offerings be silly or that they be impressive?” Penelope asked Niles.
“Both.”
She smiled at him.At him.He didn’t think he would ever grow tired of that. “I suspect I can manage ridiculous poems that show no aptitude. Fortunately for me, that is apparently acceptable.”
“And expected,” he added.
Her hand was still in his. He’d not yet been certain of Penelope’s feelings, but he was getting an inkling.Please don’t let me be mistaken in this.
Digby drew from a crystal bowl one name after another, creating their two teams. Aldric, Henri, Kes, and Digby constituted one. The other consisted of Lucas, Violet, Nicolette, Penelope, and, to Niles’s delight, himself. That meant Penelope could continue sitting beside him. They could talk. He wouldbe able to hear her laugh, see her smile. She wasn’t holding his hand any longer, but she hadn’t left his side. And he truly didn’t want her to.
“Now that we have our teams,” Digby said, “let us obtain our first poetic prompt. Our poems must include”—he drew a slip of paper from a different bowl, this one white porcelain with blue designs—“a cat and”—he drew from yet another porcelain bowl—“a tricorn hat.” He shook his head. “Best of luck, all.”
Niles and Penelope’s group had all gathered around the settee, Lucas on Niles’s other side and the two ladies in chairs that had been procured for them.
Nicolette spoke first. “I daresay the suggestion of a cat and a tricorn has led us all to think of the same thing:Le Chat botté.”
Remembering Penelope had said her French instruction had been virtually nonexistent, Niles leaned closer and translated for her, “The Puss in Boots.”
“Ah.” She nodded emphatically. “That is precisely what came to my mind. He is nearly always depicted as wearing a tricorn hat.”
“Our question, then,” Violet said, “is whether we wax poetic about this fairy-tale feline or take a different approach altogether.”
Lucas jumped in. “I, for one, can now say that if we don’t get to use the phrase ‘fairy-tale feline’ in our offering, I will be forever disappointed in us.”
They all laughed. But though it was Lucas who had offered the quip, Penelope smiled at Niles.
The evening continued on that way. Someone in the group said something funny or entertaining, and Penelope exchanged a look of delight with Niles. Not once did she give so much as a fleeting indication that she was displeased or disappointed in his relative quietness. He had never felt pressure from the Gents to be more outgoing or talkative than he was. That had helped himnot feel hurt when he’d been overlooked or forgotten about when they were in public. Those who knew him best liked him as he was.
He’d lived decades in fear of his family choosing for him a wife who didn’t accept or comprehend the person he was. In the end, Grandfather had managed to find a lady who was proving very nearly perfect, and Niles had rejected and abandoned her.
What a muttonhead I am.
“I believe this had best be our final round,” Digby declared after two hours of alternately impressive and ridiculous poetry. He drew forth two slips of paper. “Cheese. And...” A laugh sputtered from him. “Cornwall.”
“Unfair!” Kes called out. “They have Puppy on their team.”
“And you have Archbishop on yours,” Penelope said. “He has shown himself a more adept poet than the rest of us combined.”
That had them all laughing again, though she most certainly did not realize the entire reason why.
