Unforgivable(63)

“Oh!” Her surprise couldn’t have been more obvious, and he felt the need to backtrack.

“We need to be seen together,” he pointed out. “I shouldn’t have left you to receive so many callers alone. People will think it odd.”

“I see.” Her expression went slightly flat. She turned away from him to put her pen down on the ink blotter. When she turned back, she was matter-of-fact.

“Well,” she said, “I am glad that you will be here to see our callers today.”

He hadn’t intended this. He had intended to suggest they spend the day together. Alone. But now he didn’t want to say so. Suddenly, it seemed too large a gesture, and he wasn’t sure how it would be received. It seemed that every word he spoke to her came out wrong, smaller and less generous than he’d intended.

They stared at one another for a long, awkward moment.

“Well, I suppose I’d better let you finish your letter,” he said.

She smiled at him, her hand already creeping to her pen. He felt stupidly hurt. Was she so eager for him to leave? It was as though she couldn’t wait to get back to her letter.

“I’ll see you downstairs once you’ve finished then,” he added.

“Yes, of course,” she replied absently, but it seemed she’d already forgotten him. By the time he closed the door behind him, she was bent over the letter again.





Chapter Seventeen

It was not Gil’s habit to receive morning callers, a tedious business he’d left to his sister in recent years. Today, it took up the whole afternoon.

It was a cold day, and the fire had been banked up, making the drawing room overly warm and stuffy whilst the callers streamed in and out, making stifling small talk.

A number of the guests from last night’s ball decided to call. Their number included Mrs. Mills, an attractive widow in her middle years; Mr. Preston, her escort; Lady Gressingham, an old dragon; Lady Gressingham’s two perpetually unmarried daughters, and, of course, Tilly. Gil introduced Tilly to Rose as the wife of an old school friend—which was perfectly true, of course. Rose greeted her cordially, and the two women chatted pleasantly while Gil suffered through one of Lady Gressingham’s famous lectures.

Charles Thorpe arrived next, bearing a nosegay of violets and a poem—a verse, he informed Rose earnestly, that he’d written in her honour.

Once Thorpe had handed over the violets, he pulled the poem from his pocket and presented it to Rose with a flourish. He’d rolled the paper up and tied it with a blue ribbon that exactly matched his coat. And the violets. All in all, he cut quite the ludicrous figure.

Gil watched the little dance between Rose and Thorpe with fascination. Everything about Thorpe drew attention to his person, from his outlandish blue coat to the elaborate bow he executed as he handed Rose the poem. He really was the most ridiculous boy.

Mr. Preston sniggered audibly and whispered something to Mrs. Mills.

Rose pulled the ribbon off and unrolled the paper. Her eyes scanned it for a full minute, her expression serious. When she’d finished reading, she smiled at Thorpe.

“It’s lovely, Mr. Thorpe,” she said earnestly. Then she began to roll the paper up again and retie the ribbon.

“Oh no, Lady Stanhope!” Mrs. Mills protested, sending Mr. Preston a mischievous look. “Do read it! We all so love to hear poetry recited, do we not, Mrs. Drayton?” She turned to Tilly, begging her to join in the joke and plainly looking forward to mocking Thorpe’s efforts.

At first, Tilly said nothing, looking uncomfortable, but when Mrs. Mills nudged her, she joined in with the other voices—Mr. Preston and the two Gressingham girls, and yes, even Lady Gressingham—all urging Rose to read the poem out.

Rose looked around the room, her eyes resting momentarily on each guest, measuring them. Then she turned her attention back to Thorpe, smiling gently.

“Do you mind awfully if I do not, Mr. Thorpe? I have never had a poem composed in my honour before, and I should rather keep it to myself, if you do not think that terribly selfish.”

She hated poetry.

Thorpe, who had plainly been hoping for a public reading, fool that he was, softened. His self-satisfied expression transformed into one of rather touching pleasure that made him look very young. Really, he was a mere pup, and Gil felt unworthy, suddenly, for his hostility to the boy.

Rose was much kinder than he was. Much kinder than anyone else in this room. And braver, he thought, thinking of Tilly’s accession to Mrs. Marsh’s stronger personality.

Rose gave the rolled and beribboned poem to a footman, who bore it away as though it were a precious jewel, Then she turned back to Thorpe, and they began to converse, Rose listening, with every appearance of interest, to the young man as he held forth with.