Rhyme and Reason

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “I will try.”

  “Why do you act like a child before your father?”

  “I do not!”

  “No? What have I heard you say in his presence but ‘Yes, Papa’ and ‘No, Papa?’ Why do you submerge your will to him?”

  “He is my father.” When his brow arched at her trite answer, she added, “Damon, don’t try to change me.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “I have no wish to change you. Just to free you from obligations you should not have taken on.”

  Emily blinked back her astonishment. She should not be astonished, for she had already discovered how Damon saw things others overlooked. “If I had not, who would have?”

  He sighed and nodded. “I understand, for each of us has onerous tasks, even Demon Wentworth.”

  She turned away before the passion in his eyes beguiled her again. “I realize I am keeping you from your club.”

  “You aren’t.”

  “I thought …”

  He brought her to face him. “In spite of what you think of me, I do not spend every moment at the board of green cloth. Even that adventure pales with time, so I look for other challenges.”

  “In your business matters?”

  “Now you are sounding like a mama interested in ferreting out every facet of a man’s standing.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

  She stepped back before he could sweep her into his arms and against his firm chest. “I should check on Miriam.”

  “Your father is doing that.”

  “I should—”

  “What are you afraid of?” His hands glided down her arms to take her fingers.

  She drew away. “I am afraid of you.”

  “I vow to you, Emily, I am not the demon on dits label me.”

  “I know, but …” Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. It could not steady her heart that beat against her breastbone like a drum signaling a quick march.

  “Emily?”

  She gazed up at him, longing to touch his face, his hair, to let his breath mingle with hers in a soul-tapping kiss. The lamplight burnished his hair with blue-hot fire, but she knew the slightest brush of his mouth on hers would be even more smoldering.

  “If Papa had seen me kissing you,” she whispered, “he would not have been so willing to forgive you.”

  Damon twirled a lock of her hair around his finger as he chuckled. “He would be arranging, even now, for the banns to be read in the closest church. In short order, we would be wed.”

  “Order? My life,” she said, toying with a withering blossom on a spindly stalk, so he could not see how his teasing had sent a trill of delight through her, “had order until you came into it, Damon.”

  “Mayhap it needed to be a bit less orderly.” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “That may be why you have not closed your door to me. You like that I upset the order in your life. Mayhap you need a few friends who tantalize you to set aside your obligations and assumptions.”

  “Mayhap.”

  He chuckled. “You sound uncertain.”

  “I am. So much has happened.”

  “You cannot fault me for the to-do de la Cour is causing.”

  Hoping her face was not awash with lamplight, she forced a smile. “True, but you have upset my life in many other ways. I had thought it would remain much as it had.”

  “Shaking up one’s assumptions is never a bad thing.”

  Her smile became sincere. “I loathe having to own that you are right. I often find myself questioning things.”

  “Questions such as why Lady Murrow is so proud of this desert she calls a garden?”

  “Exactly.” She laughed. “I wonder if she has her gardener at her country estate trying to coerce the plants there into appearing as if they are growing in Town.”

  The chiming of a clock from near the door brought a sigh from Damon. “It is even later than I thought.”

  “I am sorry if my babblings will make you late.”

  “Late? That does not matter.” A slow smile eased across his lips. Holding out his hand, he said, “Come with me, Emily.”

  “With you? Where?”

  “To a place you shall enjoy far more than here.”

  “I cannot!”

  “Bring your abigail.”

  “But, Miriam—”

  “Your father,” he said with a grin, “is watching over her. Come with me, Emily.”

  She knew she should say no. She could think of a dozen reasons why she should say no. And she could think of only one why she should say yes. As she gazed up into his shadowed eyes, she raised her fingers to place them in his hand.

  “Yes,” she whispered, “I will come with you.”

  “You will not regret this, I promise you.”

  That was one promise he would not be able to keep, for she already was having second thoughts. Yet, for one night, with Kilmartin keeping a close eye on her, she wanted to throw aside her obligations to her family and be the one who risked everything on the chance to share one more kiss.

  While they drove from Berkeley Square, Damon sat beside Emily in the carriage, his hat on his knee, a smile tipping one corner of his lips, and answered each of her questions with, “You shall see where we are going when we arrive.”

  Kilmartin was even more silent, but the tapping of her fingers on the window and the parade of glowers aimed at Damon signaled her disapproval.

  Emily sighed. Tonight she had escaped her obligations. She wanted to enjoy herself wherever they were going.

  When the carriage stopped at one corner of Soho Square, Emily looked out. There was nothing remarkable about the plain house on the other side of the walkway, and she had no clue who might reside within it.

  “We are going here?” she asked.

  “Why so surprised?”

  “I am not surprised, just curious.”

  Damon leaned forward and winked boldly at Kilmartin. “She does not want to own that she thought I would lure her to a school of Venus where I would besmirch her reputation.”

  Kilmartin gasped, “My lord, you should not say such things, even in jest.”

  “I was not jesting. You thought that, didn’t you, Emily?”

  Emily laughed. “Do not tease Kilmartin.”

  As the footman opened the carriage door, Damon stepped out and held up his hand. “Then I shall tease you with a gathering which you will find infinitely more fascinating than that mind-numbing assembly we left behind.”

  He did not release her hand as she stepped to the walkway. Warmth suffused her. She looked from his gloved hand to the shadowed secrets of his eyes. How many other women had gazed into them before her and found nothing but amusement there? But she could sense something else in that heated glow, something that did not belong to the rakish lord he portrayed with such verve.

  A poke in her back was a reminder from Kilmartin. Quickly, Emily withdrew her fingers from Damon’s. When he motioned for her to precede him up the steps to the house, she glanced back only long enough to be sure that the footman was assisting Kilmartin from the carriage.

  Suddenly she was glad her abigail was with her. The flood of pleasure at Damon’s touch was alarming, for it urged her to toss aside all caution.

  A small antechamber waited beyond the door. Three servants stood there, although only one wore livery. They took Damon’s hat and Emily’s bonnet. Kilmartin held her shawl tightly, pursing her lips as she made it clear she expected to leave posthaste.

  “Is she always so glum?” Damon murmured.

  Emily smiled, but did not answer. Kilmartin sniffed in derision as they climbed the stairs to a large room that opened from the expansive hallway. Tables and chairs were scattered about, but no one was seated at them with some refreshments or a pack of flats and coins to gamble away the evening. The room was not full, for she guessed no more than a score of men stood within it. Dismay pricked her when she realized that, save for her and Kilmartin, there were no women.

  “What is this?” she asked. />
  “Have patience, Emily.”

  “I thought I had.”

  “Then trust me.”

  No quick quip came to her lips. His jest did not hint at what he was asking of her. Trust him? Her dismay deepened as she realized she did. Dear God, she might more than trust him. She might be falling in love with this mercurial man who wore even more guises than she did. How could she be in love with a man who might be the demon his tie-mates called him instead of the tender lover who filled her dreams?

  Damon did not slow as he guided her among the chairs. He smiled, but did not speak to any of the men who paused in their conversations to watch their passage.

  Emily’s eyes widened when he paused before a small table where an elderly man sat. Gout thickened his limbs, but his eyes were as bright as a lad’s. Tugging at his coat which was decorated with a star that denoted he was a knight, he asked in a creaking voice, “Who is this fair creature you have brought with you, Damon?”

  “Sir Joseph Banks, Miss Emily Talcott,” he replied with a respectful dip of his head.

  “Didn’t you sail with Captain Cook on the Endeavor to explore Australia and the South Pacific?” she gasped.

  The old man did not rise, but smiled. “Miss Talcott, I am delighted that you recall my youthful adventures. It is regrettably seldom that we are able to entice members of your fair sex here.”

  “But what is this?” she blurted, then flushed.

  Banks laughed, the sound as wiry as his whiskers. “One might call it a conversazione, although, I must own you will find it different from those so-called intellectual evenings put on by the misguided matrons of the Polite World. This is a place where people can come to talk. Not converse, my dear, but talk. If my good friend Damon brought you here, I trust you have a brain behind your pretty eyes.” He waved a vein-lined hand at them. “Do take her about, Damon, and see if she can betwattle one of our number with her opinions.”

  “Shall we?” he asked.

  With a smile for Sir Joseph, Emily put her hand on Damon’s arm and let him lead her deeper into the high-ceilinged room. Now that she understood the purpose of this gathering, she was eager to learn more about what drew Damon here. She had been so certain he was bound for his club and nothing more straining to the mind than the odds of his next hand being a winner.

  Kilmartin followed like a disapproving shadow, but Emily forgot her as she listened to the wisps of conversation floating around her. No one spoke of modistes or trysts or marriages. Instead, the men discussed the latest advancements in natural science and fine art.

  When she overheard a discussion of poetry, she was tempted to linger. No one mentioned Marquis de la Cour or even Byron. They spoke of medieval poets and the constraints of sonnets on modern work.

  Damon grinned at her and gave a tug on her arm. “I have had too much of rhymes tonight,” he said. “Let me introduce you to someone who should be as delighted to meet you as you shall be to meet him.”

  “Who?”

  “Patience, Emily.”

  “I am beginning to abhor the sound of those two words together.”

  He chuckled as they left the trio of men to argue over one section of The Canterbury Tales.

  Emily gazed in amazement at the scientific journals scattered across the tables. She had never guessed there could be so many and on so many erudite subjects. Hearing the debate between two animated gentlemen, one with an accent that was decidedly American, on a new variety of animal discovered in Africa, she glanced across the room to discover another man who was dressed in an alien costume that labeled him a Persian. His turban and flowing robes went otherwise unnoted among the guests.

  “Damon,” a deep voice said behind her, “you have been absent much of late from our gatherings. I thought perhaps Pipkin had driven you away with his ludicrous arguments.”

  She turned to see a skinny man who wore thick glasses. His clothes were as wrinkled as if he had donned them before retiring the night before. When his bushy eyebrows raised almost to the sparse hair on his balding head, she saw her own amazement mirrored in his eyes.

  “Ah, here you are, Gerald,” Damon said. “I had hoped you would be lurking about tonight. Miss Emily Talcott, allow me to introduce Dr. Gerald Cozie. Gerald, despite his want-witted prattling, is a respected fellow of the Royal Society.”

  Dr. Cozie bowed his head, then straightened, pushing his heavy blinkers back into place. “Miss Talcott? The Miss Talcott?”

  “I suppose I must be.” Once again, Emily was glad she did not blush. Dr. Cozie’s words suggested this was not the first time Damon had mentioned her name in his presence. She was not sure if she should be pleased or shocked that Damon had spoken of her.

  While Damon had the good grace to appear discomfited, Dr. Cozie gushed, “I was talking with Damon recently about my boyhood fantasy of sailing away on one of the ships of the Talcott line.”

  She struggled to keep her smile in place. Ships? There had not been more than one ship afloat under the Talcott name during her lifetime, although she had heard tales of when the line enjoyed its heyday. When that final ship had been sunk by a Caribbean hurricane within a fortnight of her stepmother’s death, she had feared for Papa’s mind. He had recovered. Or had he? If she had not had the good fortune to get her small books of poetry published, the Talcotts would have been all to pieces last year.

  “Now I understand what has occupied you while we noted your absence, Damon,” the doctor continued.

  “You need not show your usual lack of polish,” Damon returned with a laugh. “Emily is no blind buzzard concerned only with assemblies and routs. You shall find she shares our interest in the study of the natural world. I suspect, if you had the good fortune to view the garden she has carved out of the most unforgiving conditions here in Town, you would be impatient to hear her opinions on growing roses.”

  Astounded at the compliment, Emily hurried to say, “Damon is being too kind. My studies have gone no farther than my own garden, Dr. Cozie.”

  “Which is why I brought her here.” Damon smiled. “She should not have to waste her mind on the bibble-babble of the ton.”

  Dr. Cozie laughed. “For one who counts himself among that species, you have an unending contempt for them.”

  “I cannot change the facts of my birth, Gerald, only of my life. Now tell Emily what you have discovered about grafting roses.”

  As Damon drew her into the conversation, treating her as if she were an equal to a fellow of the Royal Society, Emily was thrilled. She had no time to savor her happiness, for she was caught up in an intense discussion where no quarter was given for uncertainty.

  Emily guessed her head was choke-full of new ideas when, three hours later, Damon walked her to her door. Kilmartin went in, leaving the door open so there would be no question of indiscretion. The blending of light from the foyer and the carriage lamp created a glowing bubble in the fog.

  Damon rested his shoulder against the doorframe. “I trust by your smile that you enjoyed yourself tonight.”

  “Thank you for taking me there.” She rocked from her heels to her toes like a child about to erupt into a dance. So many new and exciting ideas roamed through her brain that she could not be still. “I had a wonderful time.”

  “I did as well, not in the least because you gave Pipkin a bit of his own sour medicine when you corrected him about Mr. Cobbett’s latest thesis.”

  “He was a bit disconcerted by my visit.”

  “He was furious because he was shown to be a pompous ass by one of the very sex he ridicules on every possible occasion.”

  She tilted her head, so she could see him more easily past the wide brim of her bonnet. “I find such posturing distasteful.”

  “And I found his humiliation delightful.” Laughing lowly, so their conversation would not reach anyone within, he said, “I thought you would be diverted by an evening filled with conversation of things other than the drivel penned by that Frenchmen.”

  Emily fought to k
eep her smile. Why did Damon have to bring up that blasted poetry now? As he lifted her fingers to his mouth for a chaste kiss, she told herself his inadvertent insults might be a blessing, for they kept her from edging into his arms. Even as she thought that, a mesmerizing smile tilted his lips, and she wondered when she had begun lying to herself, too.

  Her heart had filled with joy in Lady Murrow’s garden when Damon mentioned marriage, even in jest. But falling in love with Damon would lead to heartbreak. Hadn’t she learned from watching her sister? If Damon had a tendre for her to match hers for him, that made everything more tragic. Then she would be dooming both of them to grief, for she could not involve him in her life and the secret that was buried even more deeply in her heart than the truth about Marquis de la Cour. The secret the ton would find appalling. The secret even Miriam did not know.

  The secret that must never, never be revealed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Miriam, be reasonable.” Emily guessed she had repeated those words five times in as many minutes.

  But Miriam refused to listen as she prowled about the garden. “How could you be so oblivious to my feelings and agree to this jobbernowl idea of going to Wentworth Hall?”

  “I thought you would enjoy a sojourn in daisyville.”

  Miriam rolled her eyes in disgust before stamping to the door leading into the house. “Why would I wish to leave Town in the midst of the Season?” She whirled to face Emily, revealing that tears now glittered in her eyes as brightly as the sunshine on the freshly painted arbor. “Why do you never think of me, Emily?”

  “I think often of you.” She swallowed the truth that would create even more problems. Miriam would be in an even greater huff if she were to suspect how often Emily thought of her sister while composing those poems she now wished had never been penned.

  “You did not think of me when you agreed to go with that man to that godforsaken wilderness.”

  Emily smiled. “Lincolnshire is no wilderness. It is not so far from London, and many families of eminence have country seats there.”

  “Including his family?” She sat on the garden bench.

  “Damon was generous to invite us to Wentworth Hall.”