Page 25 of A Duke's Temptation Poetess
Eventually, my mother will admit that this courtship is a lost cause and abandon it.
Clarissa was unsure what would happen then. She would well and truly be a spinster, and she would be forced to find some means of supporting both herself and her mother.
Ideally, she would be a poet, but Clarissa knew that dream would be monumentally difficult to achieve. What was the alternative, though? A governess, perhaps, but she suspected that such a profession would make it difficult to find time for her writing.
“Clarissa?” her mother asked.
Clarissa started a little at the sound of her name. “Yes?”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed, clearly vexed. “Lady Matilda asked if we would like to attend Lady Roswood’s ball.”
“Oh. Of course,” Clarissa said. “Apologies for not answering. My thoughts were elsewhere.”
Lady Matilda smiled, her expression bright with amusement. “I understand. It must be difficult for a young lady such as yourself, having to listen to us haggard crones for the entire ride.”
Clarissa’s jaw dropped, horrified, but Lady Matilda winked.
She is teasing me,Clarissa thought, relief washing over her.
Clarissa’s mother made a strange, strangled noise. It seemed that she was displeased with the jest. Lady Matilda’s grin widened, and her eyes shined playfully. “I remember being young,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I never liked listening to my mother and her friends gossip, either.”
“It was not that,” Clarissa said.
“Was it not?” Lady Matilda asked.
“I find that my thoughts just have a tendency to wander on long trips.”
Lady Matilda nodded, understanding clearly on her face. Clarissa withheld a sigh of relief. Lady Matilda was such a passionate, lovely person that it sometimes made Clarissa’s heart ache.
The world would be an infinitely improved place if everyone was as kind and patient as Lady Matilda was, and being a spinster herself, perhaps, a world where more people were like Lady Matilda would be one where young ladies did not have to marry for wealth or risk eternal shame and poverty as a spinster.
“And I can see that my own nephew’s thoughts have also wandered elsewhere,” Lady Matilda said, casting His Grace a sly look. “I believe that I am the common factor in both of these situations.”
He turned his head towards her, offering a bemused expression. “I do not feel as though I have anything to contribute to the discussion.”
“So you have decided to bury your nose in that book of poetry,” Lady Matilda said. “I presume this is in the hopes of finding something to contribute.”
Despite her efforts not to look at His Grace, Clarissa felt her interest piqued. The Duke of Hartingdale did not have a reputation for appreciating poetry, but he must have some liking for the literary arts if he travelled with a book of poetry. She glanced at his hands, hoping to identify the author, but when she saw the familiar, leather-bound book, her blood turned to ice.
That was her book of poems! Not only had His Grace found it, but he wasreadingit. He had brought it with him specifically, so he could read its contents on this trip. Heat rushed to Clarissa’s face, and she turned her head, certain that her cheeks must be as red as a ruby.
This could not be happening to her. She stole a quick sideways glance at His Grace, as if hoping that the book might magically turn into some other poet’s work, but of course, it did not.
“Do you have a great interest in poetry, Your Grace?” Clarissa’s mother asked, doubtlessly contemplating how to turn this newfound knowledge of the Duke’s fondness for poetry into something that could work to her advantage.
“In truth, I always have,” the Duke of Hartingdale replied. “However, I do find that it is rare for me to find a poet whose works I truly enjoy. I fear it is an under-appreciated art. Every man believes that he can be a poet, even if he does not necessarily have the talent or skill needed to be one.”
“Indeed,” Lady Bentley said.
Clarissa silently begged her mother not to sayClarissa writes poetry. Especially not with His Grace sitting directly across from her and holding her book of poems. Clarissa’s pulse quickened. She must find some way of getting that book of poems back, hopefully without revealing that she was the poet.
A lump formed in her throat. His Grace had read her work. He had seen all her errors, all the improper thoughts which no lady ought to express on paper. It would be so wonderful if the ducal carriage would swallow her whole somehow.
“Clarissa likes to read poetry,” her mother said, making no mention of Clarissa’s own aspirations to be a poet.
Perhaps her mother feared that the Duke of Hartingdale would not be fond of a female poet. Clarissa inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Now, she just had to find some way of retrieving her book without His Grace learning of her plans.
Chapter 13
