Page 15 of A Duke's Temptation Poetess
The maid turned away to place the book among Clarissa’s things. Clarissa sighed. It had been a foolish question to ask. A lady’s maid could hardly engage in dalliances with men. Her duty was to be to her mistress before anyone else, and if Alice did fancy a young man, Clarissa would surely know about him.
Clarissa wondered if the reason why she thought so much about love was that she had never, in her entire life, met anyone who claimed to have felt it. Her failed Seasons on the marriage mart did not stem from her undesirability but rather, her insistence on feelinglove. And, of course, her poetry. Clarissa could not wed a man who did not appreciate her poetry, and if she ever did find a man, she supposed that she might feel inclined to love him.
“Make sure that the volume is easily found!” Clarissa called to Alice. “I will want it immediately upon arrival in Bath!”
Alice responded that she would see to it, and Clarissa sighed deeply. She crossed the room and gazed out the window. The dark shape of a stagecoach appeared in the distance, like some foreboding omen. She tried to push the dream about His Grace far from her mind. That was not love, simply desire.
She would simply endure this trip to Bath with as much grace as she could muster, and then she would find another book to replace her lost collection. If only her mother had not dragged her across the ballroom like she had! Then, Clarissa would not have lost the poems and her pen.
Clarissa knew that she must make the best of things, though. She must accept that her poetry was lost, perhaps forever, and she must begin anew.
Chapter 8
Colin’s aunt Matilda was admirable in so many ways, some of them quite significant and others utterly common. One of the things that Colin often found himself envious of was his aunt’s ability to fall asleep readily, no matter how distressing or disruptive the circumstances might be. He shook his head with a sort of fond admiration as his aunt slept soundly.
She was utterly oblivious to the ducal carriage bumping and bounding over the uneven road and jostling them in every direction. Colin was quite certain that the driver was being careful; it was only that the road itself was so uneven.
With his aunt asleep and no one else to talk to, Colin decided to pass the long hours by reading the collection of poems. He flipped through a few pages. Colin had read many of them the night before, but not as closely as he would have liked. So eager was he to read them all that he had not lingered overly long on most of the poems. He flipped idly through the pages, searching for a work which might deserve more attention.
“The Waltz,” read the title. Colin’s thoughts turned to Lady Clarissa. His throat grew dry. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the fine fabric of her gown beneath his fingertips. He could still see her anxious hazel-green eyes and how they had darted about.
This particular poem seemed to have given the writer some difficulty, for the text was so heavily scratched out in places, the poem was barely legible.
She stood at the edge of the ballroom, a flower in full bloom.
If only some dashing gentleman would approach her soon,
And there he was, across the room.
Heart aflutter, the lady scarcely dared to breathe?
Colin wondered if the question mark indicated that the lady was unsure about the line and if she intended to change it later. The next several lines were crossed out, but Colin could grasp the general idea. A handsome gentleman approached the poem’s heroine and asked her to waltz. It was all described in exceedingly flowery terms; Edmund Spenser would be proud.
There were mentions of gentle caresses and longing glances. His mysterious poet could notpossiblybe a married woman. These descriptions could only have come from an innocent. Colin might have been able to teach this poet a few things about what desirereallyfelt like.
I suppose the poet does accurately capture some aspects, though.
He remembered the waltz with Lady Clarissa. There really had been something charming, romantic even, about their shared dance. He had found it amusing when he asked her to dance, and she had responded with that startled, speechless expression.
It was as if no man had ever asked her to dance before, a reaction which he assumed came from his high status or maybe her age. He could not say precisely how old Lady Clarissa was, but she was certainly not a young lady attending her first Season.
Colin sighed. It hardly mattered. His waltz with Lady Clarissa would not have the same ending as this poem, which involved the hero and heroine falling madly in love and having their happy wedding at the end. He wondered if even the writer believed that love was so readily found and so simple.
The end of the poem was shorter, the lines more terse and less descriptive. This mysterious poet knew how it felt to dance with a handsome man, but she did not seem to know what happenedafterthe dance. She could not imagine how a romance would proceed from there.
Perhaps the poet is fortunate to have her innocence.
Colin did not recall ever being so innocent himself. In his boyhood, his mother had fallen ill. It was a terrible ailment, which lasted for years, and she was often bed bound. Once, Colin assumed, he must have had romantic notions. He must have expected his father to remain faithful and steadfast at his wife’s side as she struggled with her health.
Otherwise, Colin would not have felt the sick betrayal he did when his father brought in his mistresses. They had walked right past the room of Colin’s late mother, sometimes laughing and drunk. It was far better to be an innocent, longing for love and unaware of what would happen if love failed, than it was to be aware of how terrible people could be.
Aunt Matilda hummed softly and stirred, so Colin stowed the book into the pocket of his coat. It was strange, but he did not wish to share these poems with anyone, not even the poet herself. He wanted them to be his and his alone for just a little longer.
“That was lovely,” Aunt Matilda said, her eyes fluttering open.
“I do not know how you manage to do that.”
His aunt chuckled. “Practice. I raised two terrible children, and that taught me how to take a rest at any given opportunity.”
