Page 12 of A Duke's Temptation Poetess
It was an appropriate text for a rake or a well-educated man to read, but most certainly not for a young lady. He wondered how she had managed to access a copy, particularly given that the poem had only recently seen publication.
He turned to the next page, which also contained a poem. This one contained several phrases which had been crossed out and seemed to be the lady’s own invention. “A Lady’s View on Marriage” was written across the top of the page. Colin seated himself once more behind his desk. This promised to be interesting, indeed.
What is Love to a lady when her only task is to Wed,
A wealthy man? To bind Herself until she is Dead—
But what is Death to a married woman?
Does she not Die when she is promis’d to a man?
Neither for Love nor Passion but instead for his earthly Title?
Colin stared at the page for a long moment, trying to decide how he felt about it. The anonymous poetess seemed inclined not to adhere closely to traditional forms of poetry, or perhaps, it was that she onlybeganthe poem this way.
Perhaps, she intended on making it more conventional at some later stage in the writing process. After all, Colin did not know much about writing, but he knew that it was not uncommon for writers to alter and create different versions of the same work. Perhaps, that was what this lady intended to do.
The message at the heart of the poem struck him, though. Was this truly how a lady thought of marriage? This seemed, in some ways, to be an echo of his own thoughts. Marriage was a dreadful trap which everyone fell into, and this was one of the very reasons he detested the ton. All those ladies with unwed daughters sought to marry them to him for such petty reasons as money and prestige. He kept reading.
And the Lady is asked to abandon Her Passion,
Her Art, Her Cleverness, and Her Pen—
And lay demurely in the prison of Her Marriage-Bed.
Colin stared at the words, penned so…directly. He wondered if the poet herself was married and if this was a reflection on her own marriage. Colin sighed softly and traced his thumb over the curves of the wordMarriage-Bedwith the writer’s unconventional capitalization. In this poem, he felt as if he heard something of himself.
This was what a lady thought about marriage. Was she alone in her feelings, or did others feel similarly? It was late, and he knew that his aunt Matilda had already taken to bed. He was filled with the sudden urge to ask ifshehad ever felt this way.
Colin had never truly considered that a woman might have such a dour view on marriage. In his experience, women, well, aristocratic women were conniving. They wanted to wed their daughters to him. They wanted to ensnare a man into marriage, the nobler and wealthier the better. And yet—
Here was a lady’s personal confession, penned by her own hand, where she refuted all his opinions. These were not the words of a lady who wished to wed to better her position. This was a lady who considered marriage to be a prison.
“I do hope you are not yet wed,” Colin said quietly, “and that if you ever wed, it is not the prison you imagine it being.”
He turned to the next page. Here, the poet had returned to her habit of listing coloured objects. Colin decided that creating lists of items must be some writing technique. Perhaps, it was a game for her. There were snippets of phrases and lines, rewritten with small variations between them.
While Colin had anticipated that most of the poems might be characteristically bitter about the prospect of love and marriage, he discovered that was not the case. This anonymous poet had a nuanced, thoughtful perspective on love.
She desired it and wanted to know everything about it. Colin could tell that she was well-read and had devoted probably countless hours to reading all the old romances. She wanted to experience the same passion that she had read about, and yet she seemed afraid of it.
The poet seemed unsure as to if love could even exist in their world, where well-bred ladies and lords were meant to wed not from the joy they felt in their hearts but for wealth and status. Her poems were written unconventionally, but they were raw and heartfelt. Colin felt as if this woman had torn her soul open on those pages.
“Is this how all women feel about love?” Colin asked gently. “Or is it just how you feel?”
He wished that the woman were before him, so she could honestly answer such a question. Instead, Colin resigned himself to turning the next page.
If Women had written the Stories, as a wisely Wife once said,
They would write of all the wickedness of men.
The mysterious poet was familiar with Geoffrey Chaucer. Colin smiled slightly and glanced across the room to his bookshelf, where he knew a copy of Chaucer’s poetry rested. It was a mediaeval copy, one which might have been written in Chaucer’s own hand, and it was a pity that he could not show it to this woman. She might have enjoyed it.
Regrettably, this poem remained unfinished. There were several lines and fragments of lines following those two lines, but most were crossed out, illegible beneath the lines of heavy ink, save two.
Women wish for love, that most elusive and powerful emotion
With far more zeal than any other earthly thing.
