“Perhaps a bit excessively. But I enjoy seeing things grow and thrive. There is a sense of satisfaction in it. In having something living bloom beneath one’s care.” She smoothed at the folds of her pink skirts, brushing away imaginary wrinkles. “If I have overstepped—”
“No, not at all. I find it admirable of you. Perhaps you could tell me which specimens you might be seeking, and I could make any future selections based upon those which you would most like to own.”
“That would be lovely,” she said, dimpling anew.
From the doorway, her butler cleared his throat; a subtle signal that their allotted time was drawing to a close. Anthony rose to his feet, offered a bow.
“Oh, don’t go just yet,” Lady Cecily said as she rose from her seat. “I did promise to lend you a book. I won’t be a moment.” And she flitted through the door without even the slightest glance to her left, where her next caller was certainly already waiting.
Anthony collected his hat from the butler, dodged the baleful glare from the next gentleman waiting—an earl, he thought—and waited just beside the door until a few moments later, when Lady Cecily returned once more to the foyer, a small book held in her hands.
“Here,” she said, handing it over to him with a smile. “John Keats. He is by far my favorite poet.”
“Keats,” he said, his brow furrowing. “I don’t believe I’ve read any of his works.”
“This was published about ten years ago,” she said. “I would be so pleased if you would read it and tellme your thoughts.”
An invitation to call again. It was…promising. Charity would certainly think so—damn. He hadto stop this nonsense of letting his mind drift back in her direction when he was meant to be giving his attention to another. “I would be delighted,” he said. And with this book in hand, he would have something to bring to their next conversation. Something to discuss which would not bore her to tears.
“I have marked the page of my favorite poem,” she said. “When you call again, do tell me which you must enjoyed—if you have found something within the pages to admire as I do.”
“I’m certain I will.” At the very least, the poet was notByron. “Thank you, Lady Cecily, for receiving me.”
“It was my pleasure, Captain Sharp,” she said with a smile. And he thought she must truly mean it. Like a sort of friendship was in the offing for them.
Not love. But Charity had said it could grow, hadn’t she?
Hell. He would get her out of his head eventually. Perhaps the book of poems would give him something else to consider. Perhaps, by the time he made his next call upon Lady Cecily, he’d have shaken this inconvenient preoccupation.
As he left the house and climbed once more into his carriage, he tipped his head back against the seat and tried to imagine Lady Cecily’s cool, clear voice whispering to him, as Charity so often did, what pleased her. Tried to imagine how it might feel to have her draped across his lap, or pinned up against a wall, or splayed across his desk. Tried to picture to her crooning praise to him—even thegood boyCharity so often uttered, which should have felt patronizing but somehow did not.
A great blank in his mind.
He sighed as the carriage lurched into motion. Turned the book over in his hands to read the title etched into the spine.Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems.
Bit of a mouthful, there. He thumbed open the cover and turned to the page that Lady Cecily had marked—with a frill of green ribbon embroidered with vibrant pink flowers—and read the title printed at the top of the page.
Ode to a Nightingale.
Anthony bit out a foul word and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. The whole damned world was conspiring against him.
∞∞∞
“Good evening, Miss Nightingale. Shall I take your cloak?”
“No, thank you, Redding,” Charity said as she swept in the door to Anthony’s residence. “We’re expected elsewhere this evening, and I’d hate to send you running for it when Captain Sharp might be down at any moment.”
“Doubtful,” Redding said. “Dinner went a touch late this evening; the family retired perhaps twenty minutes ago. Captain Sharp is likely in the middle of his shave at present. But I have taken the liberty of arranging a tea service for you in the meantime, if it interests you.”
Well, in light of the fact that she was likely to be kept waiting, she might as well. “That would be lovely; it is a bit chilly this evening—” Charity halted, turned. “I beg your pardon, Redding. Did you say thefamily?”
“The whole of it, Miss Nightingale. Miss Hattie and Miss Evelyn included.”
“No tears? No”—how did one put such things delicately?—“incidents?” she concluded.
“None,” he said. “I’m given to understand that the girls seem to have had done with their fear of the Captain. Perhaps Miss Evelyn is a bit shyer than is typical of her, but…”
But that was not so unusual. Her uncle was a stranger to her. She was just four years old, and she’d met him only recently. She would naturally take her cues from her mother, her older sister—and until very recently, both had evinced some negativity toward him.
