Page 17 of A Duke's Temptation Poetess
“Nonsense.”
“You are,” Colin insisted. “You could have wed. You had anengagement! And you—you refused to wed Lord Whitworth because of my sister and me.”
“Foryour sister and you,” Aunt Matilda corrected. “You had lost both of your parents. You needed someone to dote upon you, someone who could devote all their time and attention to loving you.”
Colin nodded slowly. “Still, there are so many people who would not have done what you did. My heart knows that. I imagine yours does, too.”
“Of course. But that does not mean you have to feel as though I lost anything because of you,” Aunt Matilda replied. “That is simply how life works. Every choice you make means losing one thing and gaining another.”
Still, he wondered if it had hurt Aunt Matilda when Lord Whitworth, less than a year after that broken engagement, married another woman.
“Did you love him?” Colin asked gently.
Aunt Matilda laughed a little. “I cannot say. I remember thinking that I did, but I am not certain I even knew what love was at that tender age. Even now, I am not sure I know.”
Colin pressed his lips together in a thin line, thinking about the mysterious poet again. He did not think she knew what love was either. Maybe that was why she wrote so much about it. Perhaps every poem she wrote was an attempt to understand what love was.
The carriage slowed, and Colin straightened his spine. His aunt cheerfully pulled aside the curtain again. “At last!” she exclaimed.
The door opened, Aunt Matilda left the carriage. Colin followed. Before them was Aunt Matilda’s favourite inn. It did not look like much from its plain, stone façade, but it had excellent wine stores, seemingly unaffected even by the war in France. Colin offered his arm and received a bright smile in return.
“I dare say your years of patronage have probably single-handedly kept this inn in business,” Colin teased.
“I dare say they have.”
That was likely why everyone treated Aunt Matilda like a queen when she came to visit. Colin liked to imagine the stories that the owner told his staff and other guests. The wild tales about the lovely, kind-hearted spinster lady who came and amused them all with her wit, kindness, and endless supply of coins.
“Let us not disappoint them,” Colin said.
“Never.”
They walked up the stone path to the inn’s entrance, and although they were not within sight of the coastline, Colin smelled the salt in the air. This would be good for him. Bath was a wonderful place to complement the musings on love left by the mysterious poet and to contemplate Lady Clarissa a little less.
He must forget her, after all. Rationally, Colin knew that, and yet the lady’s image and voice lingered as persistently as the poet’s words.
Chapter 9
Clarissa gazed out the window of the stagecoach. It was late afternoon. At first, she had occupied herself by reading a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets, but her attention kept wandering to her own lost poems. The book remained in her lap, her finger tucked between the pages. Across from Clarissa, her mother sat, looking as stately as ever.
“Something which you may do to draw His Grace’s interest is in explaining how you might be useful or helpful to him,” Lady Bentley said.
“These days, there are too many ladies, and for a lord, it is no longer a matter of finding the most suitable lady. Instead, he may choose from many suitable ladies, all equally viable prospects for marriage. This means you must try all the harder to not only attract his attention but also to keep it.”
Clarissa nodded. She had heard variations of this lecture often throughout her five failed Seasons. Ordinarily, she was able to muster some sympathy for her mother’s efforts. The woman did mean well, after all. But a small, petty part of Clarissa could not help but remember that her mother’s interference was what led to the loss of her book.
“His Grace delights in his businesses. Given your penchant for writing, it might be worthwhile to suggest that you would be suitable for organising correspondence or some such task,” her mother said.
“I write poems,” Clarissa said a little wearily.
“Have you ever heard of a lady wooing a lord with poetry? You would do best not to mention that it was poetry. Tell His Grace that when your father was alive, you helped him manage his correspondence and kept his papers tidy.”
“Let us suppose that the Duke of Hartingdale asks me to talk specifically about how I aided my father?” Clarissa asked. “Surely, you do not think that I could lie convincingly about that?”
“I think you could if you bothered to try,” her mother said. “His Grace would not expect you to understand the intricacies of business. You would simply tell him that you did as your father told you to, and I am certain His Grace would find that answer more than satisfactory.”
Her mother was likely right, but Clarissa would not give her the satisfaction of hearing her admit it.
“Besides,” Lady Bentley continued, “you need to persuade him to consider you for courtship. If you are unable to aid him in his paperwork after you are wed, that is of no consequence. He will not divorce you over such a trifling matter.”
