Rhyme and Reason

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “Yes.”

  “I told you that you would have fun at our celebration.”

  “And,” Mr. Frasier interjected, “I suspect, for you, the celebration has only just started.” He chuckled.

  “What—?”

  Damon interrupted by saying, “Thank you, Frasier, for another successful payment of the quit rent.”

  “My pleasure, my lord, as well as yours, I am certain.” Mr. Frasier smiled broadly and strode away with another self-satisfied chuckle.

  Emily tried once more to ask what the old man meant with his cryptic words, but Damon took her hand and led her to where the other guests were prattling about the ceremony. As Miriam threw her arms around Emily and asked a dozen questions about how her sister had enjoyed being part of it, Emily glanced at Damon. His smile held the promise of what they would share when they were alone in the garden. Then she would get answers to her questions and so very much more.

  She could not wait.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When night came to claim the day, Emily was glad to ride back to Wentworth Hall. Too many questions plagued her, and the longing for that walk alone with Damon teased her.

  Even the most boisterous of Damon’s guests was subdued by the time they reached Wentworth Hall. Watching as they climbed out of the carriages and into the house as if each one wanted to be the first through the door, Emily smiled. She gave a yawning stableboy a sympathetic glance, but she was not tired. How could she think of sleeping when her dream of being in Damon’s arms once more was about to come true?

  She put her hands on Damon’s shoulders as he helped her down. His fingers slipped up her back, holding her to him. Slowly, he lowered her until her toes touched the ground.

  “It will cost you a kiss if you wish to be put down,” he said softly, although no one could hear him but her. The others were in the house, and the stableboys were busy leading the horses into the stable.

  “And if I wish to stay in your arms?”

  He laughed as he put his arm beneath her knees and swept her up next to his chest. “I do like the way you think, my dear Miss Talcott.”

  “Do not get carried away in your rôle as the lord of this manor.”

  “I am interested only in carrying you away.”

  When his mouth found hers, she slipped her fingers up through his hair and answered his passion with her own. His lips brushed her cheek, her nose, her eyelids until she laughed with unfettered delight. The strong wall of his chest cradled her, freeing her to think only of this moment when everything was perfect.

  “Damon!” came a shout from the house.

  “By Jove,” he muttered as he set her on her feet, “for the first time, I cannot wait to return to Town, so I need not worry about the duties of a host.” Raising his voice, he called, “Have a new bottle of brandy opened.”

  When the man yelled back his thanks, Emily laughed. “You know your guests well, Damon.”

  “I know their thirsts well.” He ran his finger along her lips, which were swollen from his kiss. “If only they respected my thirsts and my need to slake them as well.” He curved his hand along her cheek. “Let me get them settled for the evening with a few bottles of French lace, and then we shall see to that walk I promised you.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “I am glad you think so.” He grazed her lips with a quick kiss before holding out his hand. As she slipped hers into it, he said, “Tell me. Did you keep your vow to have fun in the village?”

  “Yes, but I have a question you have avoided answering.”

  “About the quit rent ceremony.” He tapped the brim of her hat and chuckled. “Frasier is much the joker.”

  “He looks so serious, and he seemed to be hinting at something being unusual about me paying the rent.”

  “You are not of the shire.”

  “True.”

  “Old customs are held sacred here.” A distant expression softened his eyes as he drew her hand into his arm again.

  Emily laughed. “Mayhap André is correct. We English are eccentric.”

  “If he were correct about that, it proves the adage that everything can happen once.”

  When she was about to reply, Damon stopped by a gate leading to the kitchen garden. He reached under his coat and drew out a small packet. “I have been carrying this about all day, Emily, in the hopes that I would have a chance to give this to you when we were not surrounded by friends.”

  She took it and sat on the small wooden bench by the lighted gate, for her knees had turned to pudding as her heart threatened to sing. “May I open it now?”

  “Of course. I hope you’ll be pleased with what it holds.” He smiled and put one foot on the bench. Resting his elbow on his knee, he leaned toward her. “As I am pleased to be with you, Emily.”

  She had been sure she could delight in no greater happiness than being in his arms. She had been wrong, for she was suffused with a gentle joy that urged her to put her fingers on his hand, which dropped from his knee. Her longing was not simply to be in his arms. It was to be with him when they laughed, when they kissed, when they traded heated words.

  “Will you open it?” he prompted.

  She unwrapped the packet and gasped as she lifted out a tiny square of cloth enclosed in a simple frame. Someone had stitched a view of Wentworth Hall, showcasing the gardens.

  “My favorite elevation,” he said with the soft huskiness she heard in his voice when he spoke of his home and the gardens he loved. “I hope it will be yours as well.”

  “It already is.” She ran her fingertip along the even stitches. “Who did this?”

  “My mother.”

  She saw grief in his eyes. “Damon, if this is your mother’s work, I cannot—”

  He pressed her hand between his. “My mother died when I was little more than a baby. Unlike you, I never had the chance to know my mother during the years of my childhood.”

  “My mother died when I was only three.”

  “I thought Mrs. Talcott died just a few years ago.”

  Brushing a vagrant strand back from his forehead, she whispered, “The second Mrs. Talcott. Miriam’s mother, who Papa married shortly after we came home to London. It was my good fortune that she loved me as much as she did Miriam, so I did have a mother.”

  “You are, indeed, lucky.” He sat beside her and rested her head on his shoulder. “And I will hear no more about you not accepting this.”

  She knew better than to start a brangle when he took that stubborn tone. “I shall look at this and remember walking in your incredible gardens.”

  As gently as she had stroked the needlework, his finger touched her cheek. She closed her eyes as warmth spread along her skin in a beguiling stream of pleasure. “I had hoped it would entice you to pay another call to Wentworth Hall.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “You can any time.”

  Standing, she held the picture to her breast as she gazed up at the house. “It is not easy to find time to leave Town.”

  “The Season, thank goodness, does not last forever.” He set himself on his feet. “It simply seems that way.”

  “Until Miriam weds, I must be there for her.”

  “I would say she may soon make a match.”

  Horror stole all Emily’s pleasure. Shaking her head, she said, “Do not say that even in jest. I shall not have her married to that—that—”

  “Frog poet?”

  “Don’t call him that!”

  “Why?”

  She faltered. She should tell him the truth. Damon would understand, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he? She did not dare risk finding out.

  He seized her by the shoulders. “Emily, tell me why!”

  “Release me!” She squirmed out of his grip and backed away.

  When he opened his mouth, she whirled away. She paused and ran back to him. Pressing her lips to his, she fled before his arms could enfold her again. In his embrace, her heart beating with his, she knew she co
uld no longer be false.

  Thunder rumbled beyond the thick walls, but the night sky could be no more dreary than Emily’s spirits. Sitting in the room with the mural of the sunswept garden, she tried to keep her sister involved in a meandering conversation with Valeria, so Miriam would stay away from the marquis.

  “Why don’t we retire?” she asked for what she feared was the tenth time.

  “It is early yet,” Valeria said, waving a bright gold fan in front of her hair that glittered with gems.

  Emily smiled but took her sister’s hands. “Why don’t you come up to my bedchamber with me? We can talk.”

  “We can talk here.” Miriam’s eyes glowed as brilliantly as Valeria’s jewels. “Besides, you will just badger me about that silly notebook.”

  “What silly notebook?” Valeria asked.

  Miriam grimaced. “You know how Emily likes to write stuff down. She misplaced her book.”

  “A journal?”

  Emily nodded, not willing to speak an out-and-outer.

  “Am I in it?” Valeria smiled. “Of course, I must be. We do so much together.” Jabbing Miriam with her elbow, she whispered just loud enough so Emily could hear, “Do you think Lord Wentworth had someone grab it?”

  “Valeria!”

  Her friend laughed. “Do not look so shocked, Emily. I hear the cant on the streets, too.”

  “But to suggest our host would—”

  “Be interested in what you write?” Valeria’s brows rose toward her bright hair. “I believe he is interested in everything you do or say or even write.” She pointed her fan across the room. “Look! Here he comes now. Why don’t you ask him if one of his staff has found it?”

  “That is not necessary. I—”

  “Lord Wentworth!” Again, Valeria interrupted. She waved her fan at him with all the subtlety, in Emily’s opinion, of a cyprian.

  He crossed the room, a flash of lightning glistening off his shoe buckles. “When I see this fair gathering, I wonder why the gentlemen have made themselves absent.”

  “You have been too generous,” Valeria replied with a sniff, “with your servings of brandy. They seem to prefer its company to ours tonight.”

  “Nick-ninnies, the lot of them.”

  “True. Lord Wentworth, Emily was wondering if—”

  “It is nothing,” Emily hurried to say.

  Valeria argued, “It is something. Emily brought a small book with her that seems to be missing.”

  Damon’s eyes lost all hint of humor. “Are you suggesting someone in my house has purloined her book?”

  Standing, Emily said, “Of course not. I misplaced it. Valeria, do not make such a to-do about this. I am sure I shall find it before I leave for home.”

  “If not,” Damon said, “I shall arrange with Homsby to have it replaced.”

  Valeria rose and tapped him on the arm with her fan. “Unlikely, for I doubt if Mr. Homsby would be interested in publishing Emily’s journal.”

  “Journal?” He laughed. “No wonder you are so anxious to find it.”

  Miriam propped her elbow on her knee and rested her chin on her hand. “I don’t know why you are in such a tizzy. The only ones who could read it are Papa and André. Neither of them would be interested.”

  “Only your father or de la Cour can read it?” A smile curled along his lips. “Are you saying it is in French?”

  Valeria slipped her arm through Miriam’s and brought her to her feet. “I do believe there was a bit of cake left from last night’s supper. I just must have one more bite.”

  “Miriam,” Emily implored, “stay and talk with us.”

  “I promised Valeria I would go with her,” Miriam mumbled before she rushed away.

  Chuckling, Damon said, “She has lost every intention of hiding her dislike for me. But, at least, you must own she is honest.” His smile became predatory. “Will you be as honest when you enlighten me about this journal you keep in French?”

  Emily wanted to groan aloud. “Why are you making so much of something so unimportant? You know I speak French. Heavens above, I read the marquis’s poetry in French at Valeria’s party. I can practice speaking with Papa, but the only way I can stay proficient in reading and writing it is to do so. I have been keeping these little notebooks for years.”

  “You are constantly a surprise, Emily,” he said. “The more I come to know you, the more I suspect there is to know.”

  “I am not that complicated.” She had to change the course of this conversation. “Oh, there is Papa. I must speak to him. Excuse me, Damon.”

  He caught her hand, but his gaze held her as surely. “I look forward to our walk in the garden. The moon should have set soon after midnight. Then we will be able to see the stars in the water garden’s pool.”

  “That is so late.”

  “I would say it is about the perfect time. Meet me then, Emily.”

  She was saved from having to reply when Papa called. Giving Damon a smile he could translate in any way he wanted, she hurried to where Papa was tapping his foot impatiently.

  He wore a frown. When she asked him what was wrong, he answered, “I am bored beyond death, ma chérie. I had not guessed Wentworth would be such a puritan that he would not set up a single table for cards.”

  “Surely you can find other things to do.”

  “Such as?” he asked.

  “I don’t know!” Her eyes filled with hot tears as she wondered how he could be so selfish that he remained oblivious to the impending disaster if Miriam shared more than a flirtation with the faux marquis.

  “Emily, that is no way to speak to your father.”

  “Then I shall not speak with you.” She saw his astonishment as she walked away from him for the first time in memory. She began to fear there was no haven anywhere for her bruised heart, save in the arms of the very man whose touch could betray it and her.

  When Emily climbed the stairs nearest to her bedchamber, she had not expected to see André sitting by himself on a moon-lit balcony overlooking the front door. She noted the half-empty bottle of brandy by his side. If he had been drinking it alone, he could be altogethery by now.

  He rose as she turned toward her door. “Good evening, Mademoiselle Talcott.” He motioned to a chair next to his. “Do sit with me.”

  “It is late, and I told Damon—”

  “Our host shall wait for his rendez-vous with you.”

  She flushed. “Sir, I don’t know how things are done in France, but—”

  “You know damn well how things are done in France.”

  “You are foxed! I bid you good evening.”

  He stepped in front of her and put his hand on the wall to keep her from slipping past him. His brown eyes pierced her as he said, “Not yet, Mademoiselle Talcott. It is time for the truth.”

  “Truth, mon seigneur?”

  A sly smile settled on his lips as he sat and gestured for her to do the same. “I must again comment on your charming accent. I would guess it to be from what was once French Canada. But how can that be, I ask myself? How would a lovely Englishwoman come to be there?”

  “My family’s shipping line has sailed the Atlantic for several generations.”

  “Generations, exactly.” He laughed as he grasped her hand. Although she tried to pull away, he tugged her down into the chair beside his. He ran his finger along her wrist, leaving disgust in its wake. “Once I began to pose questions to myself, mademoiselle, I found they led to many more.”

  “You are drunk!”

  He kept her in her chair when she tried to rise, warning he was as strong as Damon. “Am I? Or is there, as it is said, vérité dans le vin? Truth within the wine, although I need not translate for you.”

  “You are babbling.” Again she tried to stand.

  His hand clamped hers to the arm of the chair. “You are trying to evade me, but I have seen the truth. Only a fou would not note your unique coloring, your raven-black hair and the warm, rich shade of your skin, and not ask other
questions.” When her fingers clenched by her side, he laughed. “However, being a gentleman, I would not ask you before your bien-aimé. I suspect you do not want Wentworth to know the truth.”

  “We all have things we wish to keep to ourselves.”

  “Once more, the truth. But you do not try to hide one thing.” He smiled as he poured more brandy. Taking a deep drink, he said, “You do not wish to see me with your sister.”

  “That is true.”

  “Why?”

  “I owe you no explanation.” She shook off his hand and stood. “I bid you good evening, sir.”

  “Could it be,” he asked as she walked past him, “that you do not believe me to be Marquis de la Cour?”

  “What?” She widened her eyes as if shocked. “You aren’t Marquis de la Cour? But Miriam believes—”

  “You are wasting your protestations of innocence on the wrong man, mademoiselle. You know I cannot be Marquis de la Cour because …” He reached under his chair and drew out her missing notebook. “Because you are.”

  She gasped. “That is mine!”

  “Exactly.” He rose, holding out the notebook. “I am glad you are not denying it, Mademoiselle Talcott. I had my suspicions, but they were confirmed when I found your work.”

  She took the notebook. “Where did you get this? It was among my personal things.”

  “So it was.” With the easy smile that had deceived her sister, he asked, “How have you kept the truth from Miriam?”

  “How have you?” she returned.

  “I have learned most people see only what they wish.”

  Emily swallowed roughly. “What I wish is no more of this conversation. Good evening.”

  To her back, he called, “If you denounce me, you damn yourself.”

  She turned. “You aren’t going to tell anyone?”

  “Why should I?” He lifted the bottle and splashed more brandy into his glass. “I like this vie douce I am living. I have newspapers eager for my comments and beautiful women swooning at my feet. Every door in London will open to me, and I am sure I would be granted an audience with the Prince Regent himself, if I wished.” His smile vanished as he closed the distance between them. “And you shall continue to write your poems d’amour, so I might continue to enjoy this life.”