Page 11 of A Duke's Temptation Poetess
“Would not. There is a difference,” her mother replied.
Clarissa shook her head. “I lost my book of poems tonight. I have more pressing concerns.”
Her mother laughed, the sound harsh. “Poetry is likely the root cause of this all. You are willing to sacrifice both your happiness and mine for—for some fruitless venture. Women are not poets.”
“They are,” Clarissa said, a tightness growing in her chest.
Her mother’s words would not sting so harshly if she, herself, did not often have the same doubts about her chances for success.
“There have been many great poets,” Clarissa said. “Sappho, Phillis Wheatley—”
“Yes,” her mother interrupted.
“There have been female poets, but they are mere drops in a bucket. Most poets are men. They have that luxury because of their sex. Women do not. I know that you will not listen to reason, even if it is to your own benefit, but I must tell you the truth, regardless. Your poetry will not sustain you. It will not afford you the life you have lived. Do you think you could survive without all this?”
Clarissa’s mother never raised her voice. Instead, her criticism emerged only as icy whispers, but the quiet tone did nothing to soften the blow of the words. Clarissa straightened her spine and swallowed hard.
“As you just reminded me, I have left my fifth Season without securing a suitable match. I suppose I shall find out if my poetry can sustain me, Mother.”
Chapter 6
The guests were blessedly gone. Colin groaned as he sank into the chair in his study. He felt strangely both exhausted and invigorated all at once. Interacting with the ton always left him feeling tired beyond description, but he had to admit that the nightdidhave a few pleasant moments.
Dancing with Lady Clarissa had not been nearly as dreadful as he had thought it might be, although he was now faced with the rather regrettable affliction of being unable to think of much elsebesidesthe lady in question. She was something special, and he would have liked to see her once again.
He would like to do more thanseeher. Colin forced down the lump in his throat, as he thought once again of how her slender body felt in his arms. If she had not been a lady, he would have pulled her flush against him and listened to her quickened breath.
He dared to imagine what it would be like to reach his hands beneath that fine fabric, to expose the lady’s slender shoulder or full breasts or assuredly soft thighs to the air of the night. But it was too dangerous to do those things to alady. No one cared if a Duke wants to have the occasional dalliance with a working woman, but a lady was a different matter entirely. His own parents were proof of that.
I ought not even think of such things. That is the path of temptation, after all.
He did not wish to be tempted by Lady Clarissa. Besides, it was now truly time for him to return. Colin stood and stretched, grimacing as his spine ached. At once, there was a knock at his door.
“Enter,” he said.
He expected his aunt Matilda, but instead, one of his aunt’s servants entered. It was a young lad with brown hair and blue eyes, and Colin could not quite recall his name. He did remember being told what it was, though. John, perhaps? Jacob?
“Your Grace,” the servant said, bowing lowly. “I apologise for disturbing you.”
“It is of no consequence. I was not engaging in any particularly taxing activity.”
The servant nodded. Colin smiled wryly. His sense of humour did not always carry well. “Nevertheless, apologies. As I was helping clean the ballroom, I discovered this book that someone has left. I felt as though I ought to bring it to you.”
Colin arched an eyebrow. He took the book in hand and examined it. The cover was leather and embossed with golden flowers. A lady’s diary if he had to guess as to his contents. Certainly, he could imagine no man openly carrying such a thing. “Thank you,” Colin said. “I shall see if I can return this to its owner.”
The servant bowed again and left. Colin opened the cover, searching for a name, but he found none. That would make it significantly more difficult to find an owner, although he supposed it would simply be a matter of searching through his aunt’s list of guests. It was not as if many people broughtdiariesto balls, anyway.
A mystery to solve after we return from Bath.
Curious, he flipped through the first few pages, thinking that the young lady might have written her name somewhere unexpected. He arched an eyebrow as he read what seemed to be a list of blue objects, written in a delicate, looping hand.
“Odd,” he mused.
The list of blue objects was followed by a list of red ones, then green, and at last, white. Colin turned the page. A poem. He read the contents, confused as to why it sounded vaguely familiar. Then, he understood. This was an excerpt from the anonymousDon Juan, but it appeared as if the lady had made some alterations to the original contents.
Colin’s lips twitched in amusement. “You think that you could write it better than the poet, do you?”
It was interesting that a lady would choose such a scandalous work to correct. Most did not know if, but Colin read avidly. He had seen the reviews of this work, and the consensus seemed to be that it was a highly immoral work.
