Page 36 of A Duke's Temptation Poetess
She was a short, round woman with hazel-green eyes and thick, brown hair. As a child, she had reminded Clarissa of a fairy she had once seen in a story book—a kindly creature with a little round body made in the shape of a flower. Her daughter Jane was of a similar make, but unusually tall for a young lady. She stood at least a head taller than them all.
“Oh! What are you doing here?” Aunt Frances asked.
“We thought we would surprise you,” Clarissa’s mother replied, her smile deceptively genuine.
Clarissa took a glance at her smiling aunt and cousin and decided not to reveal therealreason that she and her mother had arrived in Bath. It would only hurt Frances and Jane, who had begged them for years to pay them a visit in Bath.
“And what a marvellous surprise it is!” Aunt Frances exclaimed. “Kitty, will you inform Cook that we have guests?”
The parlour maid bobbed her head in acquiescence and left the room quickly to do as she had been ordered.
“Please, be seated,” Aunt Frances said, sinking onto the sofa. “You must tell us all about your journey here.”
Clarissa’s mother sat beside her aunt, so Clarissa took the vacant chair beside Jane. “Yes,” Jane said, her face brightening. “How was the Season?”
“Less productive than one might hope,” Clarissa admitted.
She said that partly to please her mother. Jane knew very well that Clarissa would marry for love or not at all, and Clarissa trusted that her cousin would realise what was being left unsaid.
“How unfortunate,” Jane muttered. “I am so sorry to hear it.”
“Well, those people do not know what a lady of quality looks like!” Aunt Frances exclaimed indignantly. “I cannot imagine any man with sense not paying attention to a lady as lovely, charming, and intelligent as you.”
Clarissa laughed, a little embarrassed. “I think you praise me too highly.”
“I do not. The world does not praise you enough.”
Clarissa thought of His Grace and the awed way he had looked at her, the way that his gaze had become so smouldering and intense after she revealed that she was the poet who wrote the book he kept reading. She had carefully tucked the piece of paper he had given her away in her stays when no one was looking. The very moment she was alone, she intended to read it.
Meanwhile, her mind kept drifting to thoughts of what it might be. Perhaps it was a critique of her poetry or a poem he had written. Maybe it was in praise of her work. If there were any polite way to leave the present conversation, Clarissa would have fled, torn open her gown and retrieved the paper from her stays.
“As it happens, we encountered the Duke of Hartingdale and his mother on our way to Bath,” Clarissa’s mother said. “The Season may have ended, but there may still yet be some hope for Clarissa to secure a match.”
“The Duke of Hartingdale,” Jane mused. “Is he not an incurable rake? I am certain that I have heard of his exploits.”
“Most aristocratic men are,” Lady Bentley said tensely. “He is entitled and has respectable relatives, including my dear friend Lady Matilda.”
“And the Marchioness of Roswood,” Aunt Frances said. “You might remember her, Jane. Your father tended to Lord and Lady Roswood on occasion. We have been to their estate before.”
Jane wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I cannot recall having met her, but if Father liked them, I am sure they are lovely people.”
“Indeed,” Clarissa’s mother said.
“But if you can only say that a man has respectable relatives,” Aunt Frances said, frowning, “that is not high praise. What do you think of him, Clarissa?”
Clarissa’s mother grimaced, looking as though she regretted beginning this conversation at all.
“He seems to be a decent man,” Clarissa said hesitantly. “I do not know if I believe or disbelieve the stories about him being a rake, but he was courteous on our journey here.”
She tried very hard not to linger on the feeling of his arms wrapped around her. That was not exactly what one would callcourteousbehaviour, but Clarissa found it difficult to fault him for it. How could she, when she had wanted to kiss him, too? Only the memory of her mother’s suggestion that she might force His Grace to wed her through being caught in a compromising position had kept Clarissa from accepting his kiss.
“He likes poetry,” Clarissa added.
She did not know if she wanted to mention that His Grace had read her poetry. It was a subject which neither of them had really addressed to her satisfaction. Besides, Clarissa would feel terribly foolish if she mentioned that the Duke of Hartingdale had read her poetry and later learned that he found her lacking in even the smallest poetic gift.
Clarissa swallowed hard. She had not really considered that His Grace might dislike her writings, but surely, he had not. The Duke of Hartingdale would not have kept reading her poems if he found them terrible. Were that the case, he surely would have left her book of poems in London and not carried it all the way to Bath with him.
“He has something in common with you, then,” Jane said. “What do you think? Is there a chance that you might love him?”
