by Allison Lane
“Who will be the guests of honor at your next soiree?” he asked, more to divert his attention from her narrow waist and that mind-numbing lilac perfume than because he was interested. And because she had not spoken a word to him since yesterday afternoon. Even when he had asked her to dance, she had merely shrugged and accepted his arm.
“Thornton, the poet.” Her secretive smile sent new heat racing through his body.
But this time, he easily ignored it. “Talk about a coup! People have wanted to meet the man for ten years. His latest book was exceptional.”
“I know.”
“So how did you convince the elusive Thornton to appear in public?”
“I didn’t.” Again she flashed that cat-in-the-creampot smile. “He decided it was time to reveal his identity.”
His jaw dropped. “Thornton is a pen name.” It was not a question. His mind raced at the implications.
She nodded.
“Your soiree will be overrun once word of this gets out.”
“Actually, this will not be one of my regular soirees. It’s invitation only.” She pursed her lips. “I’ll send you one.”
He shuddered. Those pursed lips recalled every one of their kisses – especially those by the stream. “Thank you.” Somehow he kept his voice level.
“He’s bringing his illustrator,” she added.
“Merriweather?”
She nodded.
“Another recluse. I’ve got every one of the man’s prints and two of his oils. He’s remarkable.”
“You will enjoy an introduction, then.” Again she flashed that secretive smile. “Are you more interested in meeting the poet or the artist?”
“That’s difficult to say. They are both extraordinary. I’ve heard Thornton criticized for making readers uncomfortable, but I cannot agree.”
“That sounds like something Lady Catkin would say.”
“It was.” He swung her into a complex series of turns. “Perceptive of you.”
“Hardly. She does not like baring her emotions – you have noted that her theatrics are quite contrived, I presume?”
He nodded.
“She hides her real self behind a flamboyant shell, but Thornton wrests emotion from his readers. The poetry is as elemental as the forces he describes, reaching deep inside to pull out pain, sorrow, wonder, or life-affirming exuberance. One’s reaction is both powerful and spontaneous.”
“But other poets draw an emotional response, too,” he protested.
“Certainly, but not in the same way. Melancholy, appreciation, affection – they lack that intense, visceral quality that Thornton taps. Even strong reactions are usually on behalf of the characters rather than oneself. I nearly swooned from laughing at an excerpt from Byron’s Don Juan last month. He was so incredibly absurd. But laughing at another’s foibles is far different than expressing joy on one’s own behalf.”
He frowned. “Don Juan? I haven’t seen that one.”
“Not surprising. He hasn’t finished it, but Shelley brought a page to one of my soirees. He met Byron in Geneva last year.” She bestowed one more smile as the music drew to a close.
He watched her take the floor with Lord Harrison, then slipped out of the ballroom. That smile bothered him – as if she was enjoying a huge joke. But he pushed the feeling aside. Her observations were remarkable – and matched many of his own. He couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed a conversation more. He should have returned to town after Christmas. Her soirees would have been far more entertaining than listening to his mother’s complaints and his uncles’ quarrels. Stimulating discussion made life enjoyable – a lesson he had learned from Bounty. As had Diana.
How the devil had she got Thornton for her soiree? The man had been an enigma for years. Absolutely nothing was known of him beyond his desire for privacy. He had never even heard a suggestion that Thornton might be a pseudonym.
He grinned as he helped himself to a glass of wine from the refreshment room, then wandered toward the main block of the Court.
Lady Debenham would be furious when she heard that Diana would hold the gathering of the Season. She had long prided herself on being the most talked-about hostess in town. Now she would not only lose that distinction, but she would lose it to an intellectual soiree. Even people who eschewed reading bought Thornton’s books. He was the most celebrated poet in the country now that Byron had sacrificed his fame on the altar of scandal. Pride at Diana’s achievement warmed his heart.
Pausing in an alcove to gaze over the moonlit gardens, he shook his head. Not even Lady Beatrice, the best-informed gossip in town, had heard about Diana’s coup – which could only mean that she had not yet sent out the invitations. Had she shared her plans with him first?
The idea started a treacherous glow in his more private regions. To distract himself, he tried to guess Thornton’s real name. He would bet his last shilling that the man was part of the ton. Why else would he hide his identity?
Ten minutes later, his only progress was to decide that Thornton was more likely a government leader than a society figure. His thoughts were interrupted by voices in the hall – Lord and Lady Bankleigh, Sophia’s parents.
“Of course Langley will approve Charles’s betrothal,” snapped Lord Bankleigh. “All he wanted was to get the lad’s hand out of the family purse. Lady Bounty is a much better match than Sophia.”
“How can you say that?” demanded his wife. “She may have married an earl, but her father was merely a baronet.”
“Easily. Her fortune is twenty times Sophia’s dowry. Her estate is larger, and she owns that town house. Charles has always preferred lighthearted women and London pastimes. Sophia is sober, straight-laced, and prefers living in the country. You must know that I never seriously expected an offer from him. Langley’s pressure pushed him into choosing a wife, but he would have suffocated under Sophia’s implacable propriety. She is not a comfortable chit to live with, and won’t be until she learns the art of compromise.”
Lady Bankleigh gasped. “I went along with you, Sheridan, because you convinced me that presenting a united front was important. But I would never have done so had I known that you were proposing a union you knew she would despise.”
“Come now, Harriet, it would have served nicely.” He sighed. “Now I must find her another suitor. Unless she weds this Season, she will be relegated to the shelf. I won’t allow her to become a spinster. The ignominy would be intolerable. People are already speculating what is wrong with us that we have been unable to find a match for the chit. Nor will you discuss this with her. It is your mollycoddling that has encouraged her excessive particularity. I hope to find a new alternative by next week. That will leave her ample time to choose her own candidate if she does not care for mine. You will remind her that Charles’s betrothal changes nothing. She will wed.”
They retraced their steps toward the ballroom.
Nicholas sighed.
There went his plans to tour his estates. Diana’s soiree would have kept him in town a few days longer – nothing would keep him away from that one – but now it looked like he would be stuck there for the rest of the Season.
Sophia must take the same hard look at reality as he had done last night. Eastbrook was unavailable. Bankleigh was going to find the worst alternative he could, so she must consider other suitors. The man’s determination was obvious. As was his thinking. He wanted to give her a say in her future, but she had to make a decision.
Sophia must see that Eastbrook and Miss Parker were rapidly building rapport. Even if she was right that uncertainties had plagued them earlier, they were now comfortable together and spent much of their time in each other’s company. He saw no evidence of love, but acceptance was there.
* * * *
Diana relaxed when Nicholas abandoned the ballroom. Talking to him was always taxing – though she had enjoyed this last conversation immensely. But knowing that he could see past her chosen facade made him dangerous. She had managed
to mask her reactions this time, but it had been difficult.
His touch had swirled heat through her body, recalling their meeting by the stream. The dizzying motion of the dance had intensified her lightheadedness. Thank heaven he had decided to talk, or she might have melted.
But he was gone. And he would not return. She didn’t wonder how she knew that. She just did.
So she was free to work on George.
She found him in the refreshment room. “Both Chloe and I are counting the days until your marriage,” she said after the ritual exchange of greetings. “She longs for the freedom to pay morning calls on her own friends. Lady Parker chooses to visit only the most staid dowagers.”
He grunted.
“The poor girl is bored to tears by the endless gossip in such drawing rooms. She prefers to discuss ideas, which is why her mother’s restrictions are so onerous. She can participate in few activities of interest.”
“What could she possibly want to do that they would forbid?” His glare was quite off-putting.
But she merely smiled. “Attend my soirees, for one. Shelley was featured last month. He is quite a remarkable young poet. Chloe was devastated at missing him.”
“Absurd. She’s no business filling her mind with such tripe.”
“His odes are charming,” she countered. “And he is quite harmless – there are some men I wouldn’t dream of introducing to a young girl; but Shelley dotes on his wife. The soirees are dedicated to civilized conversation, so there is no risk that she might fall into bad company.”
Again he glared.
“If only you would speak to the Parkers. Surely they would allow you to escort her to next week’s gathering. She is anxious to see His Grace of Wellington and Lord Castlereagh. You will also wish to meet them. Such connections will be indispensable once you assume your father’s honors.”
“You overstep yourself, Lady Bounty. I’ve no interest in politics and no intention of allowing a credulous young girl near a man like Wellington. He is worse than a flirt. Nor will I condone your insidious influence. Once we retire to the country, you will be barred from further meddling.”
“Do not blame me for Chloe’s character. She will be bored to tears without intelligent company.”
“Her current fits have nothing to do with character. She is merely mimicking a disreputable neighbor. Since girls invariably mature into copies of their mothers, you waste your time trying to corrupt her, Lady Bounty. Fortunately, Lord Parker agrees that bringing her to town was a serious mistake. The first banns will be called on Sunday.”
Having shocked her into silence, he turned on his heel and stalked away.
CHAPTER TEN
A week later, Diana and Charles welcomed guests to her special soiree. They had become good friends since their betrothal, though neither felt the tiniest spark of anything more. His intelligence, interests, and manner reminded her of Nicholas. What he lacked was the overpowering masculinity that never let her relax. He also approached his poverty differently, and he could befriend a lady without trying to seduce her.
Chloe was resigned to watching Charles escort Diana. The betrothal had produced several benefits, one of which was the ease with which the lovers could now meet at Diana’s house. And the masquerade would soon end. Charles had a firm offer from the East India Company and planned to press for Chloe’s hand as soon as he knew his departure date.
Diana had abandoned hope of an honorable resolution. The Parkers were blind fools, and George was worse. He passed off Chloe’s most frivolous statements as youthful exuberance or excitement over their upcoming marriage, believing that she would become sober, quiet, and obedient the moment they left town. And his success in rescheduling the wedding increased the pressure on everyone.
Thank heavens he had told her about the new date. She had broken the news to Chloe that same night, throwing the girl into hysterics. Fortunately, the Parkers did not observe that. By the time they brought the subject up themselves – after returning to London – Chloe had been able to respond with equanimity.
The three of them had been discussing alternatives ever since, but until Charles received his orders, they could make no real plans. Diana hoped it was soon. Chloe’s wedding was barely three weeks off. The closer they came to the date, the bigger the scandal would be for canceling – and the more impact it would have on Charles’s position with the Company. Announcing a London wedding also made it impossible to change grooms quietly. Had Lady Sophia hinted at Chloe’s liaison? That might explain the Parkers’ capitulation.
But this was not the time to be fretting over Chloe, Diana reminded herself, turning to greet the latest arrivals. Word of her coup had swept Mayfair within an hour of dispatching the invitations. Society had talked of little else for a week. She had been approached in dozens of ways by people wanting to be included on the guest list, but she had refused, citing space and Thornton’s desire to keep the crowd small. Which wasn’t exactly true. They both knew that he would be mobbed the moment he left her house. Even those who usually derided bluestockings waited with bated breath to see him.
She suppressed a grin. Thornton loved crowds and often courted attention. She had heard outrageous tales from his younger days. Now he was deliberately building the suspense, focusing attention where he wanted it. There were aspects of his career he wished to hide, so he was carefully orchestrating his disclosures so no one would suspect that he hid further secrets. Shock had a way of numbing thought. By the time it wore off, his identity would be old news, supplanted by the next scandal, and people would think no more about it.
“You have surpassed yourself,” said Nicholas, reaching the head of the line. “There has not been a more coveted invitation in years. Why did you issue so few?”
“You, too? We wished to avoid a squeeze,” she said lightly.
“Inside, at least.” The square was already filling with people who hoped to be the first to carry the news elsewhere – if other gatherings had anyone in attendance.
“Not my doing.” She smiled.
“Sly. Very sly. I always suspected you were.”
Offering Langley a cool smile, he joined the other guests in the drawing room. His eye swept the gathering, intrigued by the people she had gathered. It was not the selection he had expected. Was that a clue to Thornton’s identity?
He had made no progress in his personal quest to unravel the mystery. Every name that seemed possible had equally strong arguments against it. But he had eliminated all the known intellectuals. None of the them had a reason to remain secretive. He had also reluctantly decided that government leaders were out. If Thornton had remained hidden to protect a political career, he would not be here tonight. No one who had recently retired from government service seemed likely.
Which had returned his thoughts to society figures. Who, of the forty-odd people gathered, might be Thornton?
The crowd included several poets and writers, two well-known artists, and the core of regulars from Diana’s weekly soirees. None of them seemed reasonable candidates.
Lady Chartley had an oddly shuttered expression on her face. She was another of London’s intellectual hostesses, whose soirees rivaled Diana’s. Was Thornton a female? It was the one possibility he had not yet considered. He reviewed his favorite Thornton poems. Some, especially the recent ones, seemed softer than he would expect from a man. But he couldn’t imagine Lady Chartley writing them. He had heard some of her poetry, and it bore no resemblance to Thornton’s. Besides, revealing a female identity would hurt Thornton’s popularity. So Lady Chartley’s expression probably hid pique that Diana, and not she, was hosting this affair.
What about the Earl of Hartleigh? He pondered the man and his wife briefly before dismissing them. Hartleigh was too busy with government business to write, and his wife was too involved with her charities.
The Hartleighs joined their friends, Lord and Lady Blackthorn. Now there was a surprise. Nicholas had not expected to encounter them here. Before his
marriage, Blackthorn had been an outcast, suspected of crimes ranging from seduction to murder. His wife had proved the charges false, but they still avoided many social functions. And Blackthorn was no poet. He was now one of the more vocal leaders of the reform movement. But what about Lady Blackthorn?
He frowned. That was possible. Exposing a woman’s success in a man’s business might be calculated to bolster her husband’s claim that women should have more control over their own lives. But he doubted she was old enough to be Thornton. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen when the first book was published. Besides, he had always detected an underlying sensuality in Thornton’s work, though the subjects dealt solely with the grandeur of nature. That alone cast doubt that they were written by a woman.
A new couple paused in the doorway. Colonel Caldwell and his wife. But Caldwell was impossible. As one of Wellington’s aides, he’d been too embroiled in war to have penned Thornton’s works, the first of which had come out ten years earlier.
Nicholas sighed. This exercise was pointless. But he couldn’t seem to help himself. And others were doing the same thing. Eyes ceaselessly scanned the room, trying to identify Thornton. Some even rested briefly on him.
He absently accepted a glass from a footman, then joined Justin. They had hardly finished greetings when a gasp drew his eyes to the door.
Lord and Lady Bridgeport were entering. Nicholas carefully swallowed his wine. The earl’s reputation as a rake had far surpassed his own until the man’s unexpected marriage five years earlier.
Justin nudged him. “Why did Lady Bounty invite him? He hasn’t a thought in his head beyond his wife and sporting.”
“I suspect it was the countess who was invited. I’ve run across her a few times. She is amazingly well-read and loves Thornton’s poetry.”
“Ah. So who do you think is our elusive poet?”
“I’ve narrowed the field to you and Lady Blackthorn.” He grinned when Justin choked. “Not you, I take it. In truth, I’ve no idea, but I expect you are more interested in meeting Merriweather.”
