Page 51 of His Spirited Lady
“Besides, you were needed at home.” Her lack of sleep gave her a languid softness that was as lovely as it was dangerous. “How did Simon enjoy his story?”
“The boy has a mind like a steel trap. It took twice as long because he kept stopping me to point out contradictory details from the nights before.”
“You invent them?” she asked.
He nodded. “Simon grew bored easily when Oliver and I were working, but we couldn’t carry a book with us. So we all spun the stories together.” Her furrowed brow encouraged him to explain. “A two-year-old has awhyfor everything. At first, we answered everything as honestly and reasonably as we could, but it didn’t take long for it to become maddening.” Richard smiled, remembering. “Imagine trying to explain why you can’t see air, or why vegetables are good for you. But Oliver forbadebecause I said so. Apparently, his mother said it a lot.”
“I can see that,” Amelia said, chuckling. “She didn’t like to explain herself.”
Not for the first time, Richard was glad he’d never met the dowager duchess who’d bullied her son to Canada and his lover into poverty. “One day, rather than snapping at Simon that I didn’t know why trees weren’t as tall as mountains, I kept quiet and he answered his own question—that they grew that way somewhere else. We trudged through the forest all day, imagining a land of giants while I surveyed a stand of timber.”
Amelia’s smile was shy. “I used to imagine—”
“Should we play a parlor game?” Margaret Gerard asked the group. “Perhaps Jacob and Ruth?”
Richard resented the interruption of his quiet conversation. Besides, the last thing this crowd needed was a blindfold and a chance to grab one another. Coffee had given way to cider, which had progressed to wine and sherry. Billiards had encouraged whiskey, in part to ward of the chill of the games room.
“That is a poor idea,” he whispered to Amelia. “Think of something—”
“Let’s test our brains first,” Amelia said. “I have it on good authority that Richard writes fine limericks.” She went to the writing desk, returning to distribute paper, ink pots, and quills. “Why don’t we all try?” She rejoined him on the sofa, quill in hand. “Can you give us one as an example?”
Oh, dear God. His reputation for rhyming was based on risqué poems and a little boy’s naiveté. Oliver would find this hysterical. Given Jasper’s muffled laughter, he did as well.
“Let’s see.” Richard searched his memory for a limerick that didn’t mention scandalous topics, but nothing came of it. Closing his eyes, he pieced the simplest of words together.
“Men scour thetonfor agirl,
A lass that is all silk andpearls.
You may call me afool,
But linen andwool
Do more to set my headawhirl.”
“Well done.” Jasper lifted his glass, a smirk on his face. “I wondered how you’d accomplish that.”
“How clever,” Amelia said as she squeezed his hand. “You really are quite talented.” Her blue eyes widened, drawing him to the brink of the sea, but then shifted before he could fall in. “Everyone, let’s take fifteen minutes and see who can craft the best rhymes.”
The guests spread across the room in search of writing surfaces. For the next quarter of an hour, everyone else’s quills scratched over paper while Richard hoped good natures and good manners would prevail.
“Time,” Amelia called. She returned to the sofa, fluttering the page to dry the ink. “Who wants to be first?”
“May I?” Margaret asked.
“Certainly.” Amelia’s curls bounced as she nodded, her smile bright. Her joy made him hope that much harder for success.
Margaret cleared her throat.
“Their once was a lady infeathers,
Who thought that they made her muchbetter.
Until her friends didharangue
To shed hermeringue;
She’s glad that they all cametogether.”
