seven-hundred-line poem in honor of the gazebo, but while searching her study she had fished up a sonnet sequence describing a three-sided Chinese house.
“I regret to say that I must postpone the pleasure,” Trent said, bowing over the lady’s ink-stained fingers. “I am leaving for Wales, and should have left London some hours ago.”
“You are leaving the city?” Mrs. Pelford’s face fell. “But you will return shortly, will you not?”
“In a few weeks.”
“I imagine Lord Cedric has mentioned this, Your Grace, but my husband and I are eager to return home to Boston. We have asked that the betrothal be a matter of a few months.”
That made him feel slightly cracked but Trent pushed the thought away. He wanted Merry, more than any woman he’d ever seen, but she would be the salvation of his twin. That was far more important than his response to her.
“I am happy to hear it,” he said, more firmly than he might have. The sooner Merry married Cedric, the sooner she would begin to solve his brother’s problems.
Mrs. Pelford patted his arm. “You shall come to tea again as soon as you come back, Your Grace, and I will read you the entire sonnet sequence.”
“It will be a pleasure,” he murmured, and made his escape.
It would be Cedric, and not himself, who would be obliged to endure nine hundred lines, or even more, commemorating the wedding. He had the distinct impression that Mrs. Pelford would write such a poem in a matter of a week, perhaps on the ship back to Boston.
He also had the awful feeling that he himself would have listened to all nine hundred lines, if it would make Merry happy.
Hell, he would listen to ten thousand lines, if he could sit next to her and entwine her fingers in his. And think about just what he was going to do to her in their bedchamber after the poetry reading was over.
Trent flung himself into the carriage with relief.
A slate mine could be dangerous.
But just at this moment it seemed far less dangerous than the brightly lit drawing room he had just left.
Chapter Seven
I n the days that followed, the spark of anxiety Merry had felt about her cultivation of mind—or lack thereof—grew larger and larger. Every time she turned around, someone was gazing at her in horror.
She laughed too loudly. She slouched in her chair. She yawned when she was bored. Call her a rebel, but seven courses at one meal was insufferable, especially when one was only permitted to speak to the persons on one’s left and right but never, ever to the fascinating person across the table.
She seemed incapable of making any self-improvements whatsoever. It was enough to make her think that her governess had been right. She could still hear Miss Fairfax lamenting, “Merry has none of the discretion, modesty, or reserve required of those who marry into polite society.”
Aunt Bess had only laughed and said that when it came to marriage, a fortune trumped discretion.
“ That is an American belief,” Miss Fairfax had retorted. “Ladylike accomplishments are more important than worldly goods, and your niece has none.”
“Well, spit,” Merry had protested. “You’ve taught me how to embroider and how to make wax flowers.”
Miss Fairfax’s yelp of anguish had probably been heard in London itself. “No lady would allow such a vulgarity as ‘spit’ to pass her lips!”
Her governess’s criticisms had usually bounced off Merry like rain from a tin roof. But that one had stuck, and night after night she lay awake, wondering if she and Cedric could be happy together. Clearly, he expected his wife to excel at something more refined than molding wax flowers.
Absurdly, sometimes she found herself wondering what it would be like to be a duchess. The very idea was ridiculous: a duke might flirt on a balcony, but he wouldn’t consider actually marrying a woman like her. He would marry someone like Lady Caroline, a noblewoman who knew the ins and outs of society.
Not that she would
“I regret to say that I must postpone the pleasure,” Trent said, bowing over the lady’s ink-stained fingers. “I am leaving for Wales, and should have left London some hours ago.”
“You are leaving the city?” Mrs. Pelford’s face fell. “But you will return shortly, will you not?”
“In a few weeks.”
“I imagine Lord Cedric has mentioned this, Your Grace, but my husband and I are eager to return home to Boston. We have asked that the betrothal be a matter of a few months.”
That made him feel slightly cracked but Trent pushed the thought away. He wanted Merry, more than any woman he’d ever seen, but she would be the salvation of his twin. That was far more important than his response to her.
“I am happy to hear it,” he said, more firmly than he might have. The sooner Merry married Cedric, the sooner she would begin to solve his brother’s problems.
Mrs. Pelford patted his arm. “You shall come to tea again as soon as you come back, Your Grace, and I will read you the entire sonnet sequence.”
“It will be a pleasure,” he murmured, and made his escape.
It would be Cedric, and not himself, who would be obliged to endure nine hundred lines, or even more, commemorating the wedding. He had the distinct impression that Mrs. Pelford would write such a poem in a matter of a week, perhaps on the ship back to Boston.
He also had the awful feeling that he himself would have listened to all nine hundred lines, if it would make Merry happy.
Hell, he would listen to ten thousand lines, if he could sit next to her and entwine her fingers in his. And think about just what he was going to do to her in their bedchamber after the poetry reading was over.
Trent flung himself into the carriage with relief.
A slate mine could be dangerous.
But just at this moment it seemed far less dangerous than the brightly lit drawing room he had just left.
Chapter Seven
I n the days that followed, the spark of anxiety Merry had felt about her cultivation of mind—or lack thereof—grew larger and larger. Every time she turned around, someone was gazing at her in horror.
She laughed too loudly. She slouched in her chair. She yawned when she was bored. Call her a rebel, but seven courses at one meal was insufferable, especially when one was only permitted to speak to the persons on one’s left and right but never, ever to the fascinating person across the table.
She seemed incapable of making any self-improvements whatsoever. It was enough to make her think that her governess had been right. She could still hear Miss Fairfax lamenting, “Merry has none of the discretion, modesty, or reserve required of those who marry into polite society.”
Aunt Bess had only laughed and said that when it came to marriage, a fortune trumped discretion.
“ That is an American belief,” Miss Fairfax had retorted. “Ladylike accomplishments are more important than worldly goods, and your niece has none.”
“Well, spit,” Merry had protested. “You’ve taught me how to embroider and how to make wax flowers.”
Miss Fairfax’s yelp of anguish had probably been heard in London itself. “No lady would allow such a vulgarity as ‘spit’ to pass her lips!”
Her governess’s criticisms had usually bounced off Merry like rain from a tin roof. But that one had stuck, and night after night she lay awake, wondering if she and Cedric could be happy together. Clearly, he expected his wife to excel at something more refined than molding wax flowers.
Absurdly, sometimes she found herself wondering what it would be like to be a duchess. The very idea was ridiculous: a duke might flirt on a balcony, but he wouldn’t consider actually marrying a woman like her. He would marry someone like Lady Caroline, a noblewoman who knew the ins and outs of society.
Not that she would
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