She had to admit that Roland spoke verse beautifully. "Oh, hello," she said, taking another step backwards toward the door to her room and wishing desperately that she had her wrapper. "Are you quite—"
He interrupted her. "She has the beauty of a virgin! She has never defiled herself. She has never abandoned herself to men, like the other goddesses."
Oyster barked again, and Eleanor felt like joining him. "That's—ahem—very kind of you," she managed. Never mind the fact it wasn't true. "Are you on a ladder, Sir Roland?"
"Certainly," Roland said, making no effort to climb onto the balcony. "I am acting out my play for you."
"Don't tell me you're standing on a silk ladder!" she exclaimed. "Please do come onto the balcony, Sir Roland. I'm worried for your safety."
"It's made of wood," he said. "Now if you'll allow me to gather my thoughts..." There was silence for a moment and then he intoned in such a booming voice that she jumped, "The night is fair in the garden, and my princess has eyes like amber." He flung out a hand and gestured to the sky. "How strange the moon looks! Like the hand of a dead woman seeking to cover herself with a shroud."
Eleanor looked up, but the moon looked pretty much the same as usual to her, and it had never included dead women or shrouds. In fact, that comment was in fairly poor taste, given the news about Ada... but then Roland hadn't been there during dinner. But surely he was told when he arrived for the musicale why she had retired early.
He ascended another rung. Now she could see him from the waist up. His eyes were burning with excitement. Or desire.
That made her feel rather pleased, but unfortunately not at all as if she'd like to pull him to her, the way she felt when Villiers issued one of his sardonic jibes.
And yet Roland really was beautiful. In the light that fell from the windows behind her, he looked like the prince from an old fairytale, climbing the tower to rescue a princess.
"Thy body is white like the snows that lie on the mountains of Judea, and come down into the valleys," he said. Eleanor could feel her cheeks getting a little warm. She refused to glance down at her bare legs, but of course her body was white. Why wouldn't it be?
"The roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia are not so white as thy body," Roland said feverishly. "Nor the feet of the dawn when they light on the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the breast of the sea..."
"Too many breasts," came a deadpan voice at her left shoulder.
Eleanor jumped and uttered a little scream. "Villiers!" Then she looked back at the poet. "Don't mind him, Sir Roland."
But Roland wasn't there any longer. "Oh, no!" she cried, dropping Oyster and running forward. Sure enough, the ladder was slowly swinging away from the house, the poet clinging to the top of it.
"He'll be all right," Villiers said.
"No, he won't! He might—he might—"
The ladder gained speed as it went down and finally crashed. There was a sound of splintering wood. Eleanor peered into the dark, trying to figure out where Roland had landed.
"Help, someone!" she shrieked. "Go see what happened! Go get help. Don't just stand there—are you laughing?"
"Of course not, princess. Just wait a moment. Your swain liveth."
She couldn't see exactly what was happening, but someone was cursing and it sounded like Roland.
"I estimate that he landed in the raspberry bushes," Villiers said. "He probably hit them dead on. Not good for his clothing. Or," he added thoughtfully, "delicate parts of his anatomy. But the good news is that he landed rump down rather than the other way around."
"Sir Roland!" Eleanor called, ignoring the jaundiced commentary at her shoulder. "Are you all right?"
There were thrashing noises.
"Do you want help? Shall I call someone?"
A door had opened onto the gardens now, and a couple of servants were cautiously emerging.
"Go help Sir Roland out of the raspberry bushes," she called over the balcony.
They peered up at her and then set out across the lawn.
"Why don't you go help?" she asked crossly, turning to Leopold.
"I'm holding up your towel," he said. She could just barely see his smile in the light from the doorway. If Roland looked like a troubadour, Villiers looked like Lucifer himself, all dark shadows and pure lust.
He dropped the grip he had on the back of her towel and fell back a step. All of a sudden she could feel the place where his hand had touched her skin, burning as if he had branded her.
Below them, Roland was being hauled out of the raspberry bushes. Eleanor tore her eyes away from Villiers and tucked her towel more securely around her. "Sir Roland, are you quite all right?" she called, turning to lean out over the balcony.