Page 21 of Rescuing a Tantalising Heiress
“I smell like a young debutante,” he said, and Isabella laughed.
“Well, you don’t look like one,” she replied, and Edward shook his head, and he, too, laughed.
“No…I’ve never looked like a debutante. I’ve been accused of many things, but not that,” he said, rising to his feet.
Isabella did not wish to be a burden to him. She had already taken up far too much of his time, and she felt certain he had far better things to be doing than tending to her wrists. But the viscount seemed in no hurry to leave, and now he went to the window, opening it to let in a pleasantly warm breeze from the garden.
“You don’t have to stay. Not if you don’t want to. I’ll be quite all right here,” Isabella said, for she felt certain she could happily have remained in this beautiful library her whole life long and never grown bored.
But the viscount shook his head.
“I’ll only stay if you want me to, but I’m in no hurry to leave. Only a desk of papers and dull correspondence awaits me. I’ve never really appreciated the library, but your obvious delight in it makes me question myself,” he said, and Isabella smiled.
She liked the idea of spending time with him, even as she knew it was hardly the done thing for men and women of their rank to be alone together. Isabella could see Augusta through the window at the bottom of the garden, a faint figure tending her roses—was she at an acceptable distance for a chaperone?
“Oh, but you should delight in it. I like to think of a library as a place of infinitely different worlds. You can pull a book from the shelf and step into the Orient, and another, and you find yourself in the New World, or even far beyond this world, too. Anything is possible,” Isabella replied, looking around her at the shelves of books stretching in every direction, from floor to ceiling.
The viscount traced the line of his finger along the nearest shelf, and Isabella rose to join him, peering at the spines of the books, and wondering which she would read first.
“Matters in Geography, A History of the Chevalier Family, Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, On the Road to Rome, An Exploration of the Modern Man,”Edward read, and Isabella followed him, repeating the titles in her mind, but still eager to pull the volume of William Blake from the shelf of poetry books.
“Do you care for poetry?” Isabella asked.
She was not sure whether a manwouldcare for poetry. Her father showed little interest in the subject, though he would listen dutifully to Isabella’s own attempts at composition. She had written a small volume of poetry herself, entitledThe Ongoing Seasons—a set of verses chronicling the pattern of the changing landscape of her father’s estate throughout the year.
But it was nothing compared to those poems she read over and over again by the likes of Blake and Coleridge, the lyrical, melodic verses imprinted on her mind.
“I…well, I must say I’ve not read a great deal of poetry,” the viscount admitted.
It was like Isabella’s dream, and now she reached down for the volume by Blake, opening it to find the poem entitledThe Garden of Love.
“I adore William Blake, and this is one of my favourites,” Isabella said, clearing her throat and beginning to read.
“I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.”
William listened, smiling as Isabella concluded. She closed the volume and looked at him expectantly, expecting him to exclaim in rapturous tones the beauty of the verse.
