“I was out in the garden, Papa, and had to tidy myself.”
“You’ve changed your gown,” her father said with a nod of approval.
So annoying to be fair and blush like a ruby rose in midsummer. Henrietta curtsied. “So nice to see you again, Lord Fortescue.” Unable to risk meeting his eyes, she stared at his left ear. “I expect you find the English weather deplorable.”
He angled his head so that his eyes met hers. What she found there surprised her. Sympathy and compassion. Or was it pity? Her throat closed in horror. “Nothing about England is deplorable, Miss Cavendish,” he said. “The beauty one finds in the countryside fair takes one’s breath away.”
“Well expressed, Lord Fortescue,” her father said. “Horatia, that’s more persuasive than that poet Lord Byron you’re always quoting.”
Hetty sat on the sofa beside Guy. “Oh, not so often, surely, Papa.”
“Byron is a favorite, Miss Cavendish?” Guy seized on the information, and a delighted gleam entered his eyes. He was not about to let such a moment pass. “Surprising that arouéand a rake can produce such sensitive verse, don’t you agree?”
Hetty scowled. “I agree that his poetry is very fine.”
Knife poised, her father raised his head before buttering another slice of bread. “Roué? Rake? These are not words bandied about in English drawing rooms, my lord.” He looked at her with a worried frown. “If Byron is one of these, I forbid you to read any more of his work.”
Guy’s eyes twinkled.
She leveled a glowing look at him. “I’m surprised you’ve read Byron, my lord.”
His eyebrows peaked. “Do you mean that French poets are so sublime we tend not to read beyond our shores? We are a nation of romantics.” He put down his cup. “I recently discovered a new poem of Byron’s. Written this year, I believe.” He began to recite it, his voice lending it just the right tone of regret.
“Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
’Gains thee shall my heart rebel.”
Hetty released the breath she’d been holding. She’d hung on every word. He quoted Lord Byron as if he truly understood the meaning behind Byron’s words. With the memory of his kiss, she feared she was gaping like a foolish, smitten girl and bent her head over the teapot.
“Written to his wife, when his marriage ended after one year, I believe,” Guy added, helpfully bringing her back to earth.
Her father replaced his cup in its saucer with a rattle. “Modern verse!” He shook his head and climbed to his feet. “I declare, I can’t follow what young people talk about nowadays.” He bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I’ll go to the library, there’s some business needs my attention. It has been a pleasure to have your company. I had no idea you were so interested in fly fishing. You must call on us again.”
Guy stood and bowed. “Merci,Colonel Cavendish. I should be delighted to learn more from you before I embark on the sport.”
With both doors left ajar for propriety’s sake, her father settled by the library fireside.
After a glance at her father rustling his periodical, Guy turned to her. “Horatia,” he said in a quiet voice, edging closer to her on the sofa. “Might we be friends?”
She needed time to build some sort of resistance to his charm. “Friends don’t treat each other the way you did,” she said in a small voice.
“I am sorry.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “I could not resist. You were very beguiling.”
She was? Hetty tried to ignore that. “You’re not sorry at all.”
“You did trick me, Horatia.”
“I explained why.” She glanced at her father who was intent on lighting his pipe. “I was right not to trust you.”
Guy grimaced. “But you can trust me, I promise you.” He tilted his head and smiled. “No one has been badly wounded by this escapade, have they?”
His words sounded so convincing, and she had to admit that the last few days had been quite extraordinary and certainly not dull. She would consent to a friendship for it put the relationship on a safer plane. “You’ll tell no one…?” she whispered.
He chuckled. “Kiss and tell? That is not my code.”
