Page 45 of A Duke's Temptation Poetess
“You are so exquisitely beautiful,” Lord Creshire said.
He was saying everything right, and when he gazed at her, his smile was charming and sincere.
“You have said so many times this evening,” Clarissa replied.
“Have you tired of hearing it?”
Clarissa supposed not, but she knew all too well how undesirable she really was, especially to a man like the Earl of Creshire, who was well-respected and also very wealthy. And here she was, a spinster with no dowry to her name. Where had Lord Creshire’s attention been during all her failed Seasons? It was quite apparent to her that the Earl was only being polite.
It was strange that she did not receive the same impression from His Grace. Clarissa’s face warmed when she thought of the way he looked at her, so intently, as if she were the most marvellous woman he had ever seen.
“I suppose I have not,” Clarissa replied.
It was not fair of her to fault the Earl of Creshire for trying to be polite. He was a gentleman, after all. Lord Creshire was also an elegant dancing partner. He never missed a single step or beat, and it seemed to Clarissa as if they nearly glided across the floor.
“How long do you intend to stay in Bath?” Clarissa asked.
Lord Creshire chuckled. “I am unsure. I will certainly remain long enough to attend Deborah’s ball—”
Deborah? Clarissa frowned, unsure why the Earl of Creshire had referred so informally to Lady Roswood.
“—but I may very well stay for a while longer after that,” the Earl of Creshire said. “Bath is a lovely place, and I do not have a reason to come here nearly as often as I might like. What of your own plans?”
“I imagine that I will return to London,” Clarissa said, “unless my mother agrees to stay a while longer with my Aunt Frances.”
“Ah, Mrs. Spencer,” Lord Creshire said.
“Yes.”
Their conversation lapsed a little as they whirled around together. “Are you and His Grace well-acquainted?” Clarissa asked.
It was the Duke of Hartingdale who kept her attention, and he kept fluttering around at the corner of her eye, accompanied by his aunt in her lilac dress.
“We have known one another for many years,” Lord Creshire said, “although our paths seldom cross. I have always been rather critical of His Grace’s behaviour, so as you might imagine, I try to—well, I should not speak of such matters with a lady. I am certain that you have heard the rumours.”
“That he is a rake?” Clarissa asked.
“Indeed.”
It made sense that Lord Creshire would be hesitant to speak of His Grace, given that the Earl of Creshire had a spotless reputation. He was charming and kind, and Clarissa did not know anyone who would speak ill of him.
By all accounts, he was a good man, and it was understandable that he would wish to safeguard such a sterling reputation. That meant, even if His Grace was witty and charming and well-read, Lord Creshire had good reason to keep his distance.
“Are you a great admirer of poetry, my Lord?” Clarissa asked.
“Indeed, as are most gentlemen. Are you?”
“Yes.”
She would never tell him that she wrote her own poetry. That was her secret and, she supposed, His Grace’s now. Clarissa bit the inside of her cheek, trying to decide why she even posed the question to Lord Creshire if she had no intention of revealing that she even wrote poetry.
“What is your opinion of lady poets?” she asked.
Lord Creshire’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling at their corners.
“Women are known as the fairer sex in part because they have so many delicate feelings and sensations. Poetry is often an art which seeks to understand both beauty and tender feelings. It seems only reasonable that some ladies be poets.”
Clarissa’s heart quickened. The Earl of Creshire sounded so genuine and thoughtful, and he respected lady poets. Perhaps it was cruel of her to think that he was only being so kind because he was a gentleman. She did not know him well enough to make any particular determination of his character, after all.
