PoetsandPromises Read online

  Once back in London Lord Sherbourne and Mr. Earlywine delivered Lady Parker and Elisabeth to the town house on Half Moon Street and went their separate ways. Lady Parker, declaring her intention to rest, instructed the butler that she would not be receiving any callers for two days and retired to the refuge of her bedchamber.

  Elisabeth was at first grateful for the time to recover from the tiring journey and the opportunity to write a long letter to Jane about their Lyme excursion but when Lord Sherbourne, who usually walked over to his sister’s town house daily, did not appear in Lady Parker’s drawing room the second morning, Elisabeth began to wonder why. Might he have seen Shelley’s kiss after all? She had been somewhat reassured by his courtesy to her on the return journey but now she recalled that the small looks of understanding she had become accustomed to exchange with the viscount during their conversations had been lacking, as had the occasional touches of his hand when they had a moment unobserved by others. Had he only been tired or abstracted? Or had he been brooding over the kiss? Elisabeth sighed involuntarily as she pretended to work on a piece of embroidery.

  “What is it that causes you to sigh so dolefully?” Lady Parker inquired from behind her desk where she sat going through her post. The older woman was wearing one of her new gowns from Madame Parenteau, an ivory-colored gown with wide bands of multihued embroidery around the sleeves and neckline.

  “I was only wondering why Lord Sherbourne has not called since we returned,” Elisabeth admitted.

  “No doubt my brother had business to take care of after being away several days,” Lady Parker commented as she continued to sort through her accumulation of bills. “Richard has had much to concern himself with since his unexpected accession to the viscountcy. He hopes to have all in order before the end of the summer so that he may remove to the country to take over the full running of the estate.

  “But,” she finished with a smile, “I have no doubt Richard will call soon—indeed he must call tonight, for we are attending the musicale at Lady Havelock’s.”

  “I had forgotten,” Elisabeth admitted, relieved that she would see Lord Sherbourne soon. “Perhaps his grace will call this afternoon,” Elisabeth added with a sidelong glance.

  Lady Parker’s face lit with pleasure and Elisabeth thought what a pity it was that Lady Parker felt she could not marry the duke when it was evident she cared for him deeply.

  “Perhaps,” the older woman acknowledged self-consciously. “I must confess I have been hoping he would, and that is why I wore this new gown. But in the event he does call, I should tell you that I did not inform his grace who made up our party in Lyme, although I do dislike such evasions,” she finished unhappily. “I have felt the need of too many these months since I returned to England.”

  “His grace the Duke of Norland,” the butler announced as that personage entered the room.

  Elisabeth, her own spirits higher now that she knew she would see the viscount soon, dared to give a sly wink to her hostess.

  After greeting the duke Elisabeth made her excuses and went upstairs, both wishing to give Lady Parker and her caller some privacy and also wishing to have Molly help her select a gown for the evening’s musicale. Elisabeth felt it would be important to look well in order to demonstrate to Lord Sherbourne that she cared to appear her best in his company. She must do all she could to restore the rapport that had been growing between them before they sailed on the Swallow.

  Lady Havelock’s house on Berkeley Square was far grander than Lady Parker’s modest residence on Half Moon Street and Elisabeth looked in appreciation around the large room where the musicale was being held. A delicate frieze circled the walls below the ceiling and a fine painting of a mythological theme adorned the ceiling itself. Thick Axminster carpets cushioned the floor and a fine gilt harp and exquisite pianoforte held pride of place in the area set aside for the musicians.

  “I see Lady Earlywine,” Lady Parker commented to her brother as they entered the room. “Shall we take our place in the empty seats behind their party?”

  Lord Sherbourne ushered his sister and Miss Ashwood over to the empty chairs behind the Earlywines’ but did not take a seat beside them.

  “Please excuse me,” he addressed his sister. “I shall return shortly but I see the Comtesse de Fleurille and her niece and I must speak to Miss Thibeau about my portrait.”

  Miss Thibeau again. As Elisabeth watched Lord Sherbourne cross the room and make his respects to the comtesse before taking a chair behind that of Miss Thibeau, all her hopes for the evening vanished.

  “Miss Thibeau looks charmingly in that Pomona green gown, does she not?” Miss Earlywine asked Elisabeth, turning to visit with her friend. “I wish I had her countenance,” she added with a wistful look.

  “Yes, Miss Thibeau does look very well in her gown,” Elisabeth had to agree, thinking how well the artist also looked next to Lord Sherbourne. The contrast of Miss Thibeau’s dark hair and Lord Sherbourne’s light was arresting, as was the contrast of the viscount’s rather stern visage and the artist’s animated features.

  “James is having his likeness taken by Miss Thibeau, as is Lord Sherbourne,” Miss Earlywine confided. “If it turns out well I may have mine taken. Have you thought of having Miss Thibeau take your likeness, Miss Ashwood? Perhaps we might go to sittings together. James tells me Miss Thibeau keeps a rabbit in a cage in her studio and that it appears to be quite a pet. How odd that is but I should quite like to see it.”

  “Yes, it would be interesting to see the rabbit,” Elisabeth agreed, “but I had not thought of having my likeness taken.” Not feeling in a temper to hear more encomiums on the artist, Elisabeth turned the subject. But she remained excruciatingly aware of the artist’s presence and the charming smiles that lady bestowed on Lord Sherbourne. Why had she been concerned about the possibility of Lord Sherbourne having witnessed Shelley’s kiss? No doubt the viscount would not have minded in the least had he seen it, for clearly he was more interested in Miss Thibeau than herself, Elisabeth thought sadly.

  Lord Sherbourne returned to his seat beside Elisabeth before the music began but Elisabeth failed to appreciate the excellence of the musician’s playing as the delicate notes of a harp concerto by Handel filled the room. Instead she sat feeling that the delicate pink gown she had chosen for the evening thinking it looked well with her soft brown curls made her look unappealingly young and ingenuous. How could Lord Sherbourne be attracted to her when he had the obvious admiration of a charming and talented woman of the world?

  Lord Sherbourne handed his hat and stick to the footman at the Comtesse de Fleurille’s and followed the butler to Miss Thibeau’s studio. This was to be the final sitting for his portrait, a portrait he had once thought to give Miss Ashwood but now suspected he would present to his sister instead. A portrait did not seem an appropriate gift for a woman who gave her kisses to another man, Sherbourne thought bitterly as the butler stepped back to allow the viscount to enter the studio. How could she have allowed Shelley to take such a liberty not twelve hours after their frank conversation as they walked along the Cobb? Had the words meant nothing to her? Was she so shallow?

  “If your lordship will be pleased to wait in here I will inform Miss Thibeau of your arrival,” the butler said respectfully.

  While he waited for Miss Thibeau to be summoned Lord Sherbourne made an effort to get his thoughts away from Miss Ashwood and her shocking behavior and looked interestedly around the studio. Paints and brushes were neatly put away and the rabbit slept quietly in his slatted wooden box but the viscount noticed a stack of several canvases leaning against the far wall. Curious to see more of the Frenchwoman’s art, he crossed the room and began to inspect them one by one. Most were bold but realistic renderings of the flowers Miss Thibeau appeared to enjoy painting but toward the end of the stack he found a painting of her long-haired rabbit sitting on a cushion, followed by one of a cat lying asleep in a lush garden of summer flowers.

  “That is my aunt
’s chat,” Miss Thibeau spoke, coming into room. “You like the painting, yes, Lord Sherbourne?”

  “Yes,” Sherbourne agreed. “Your renderings of the rabbit and cat are most lifelike. I was thinking I must have you paint my sister’s cat. I believe it would please her greatly.”

  “I should be happy to do the likeness of the chat of Lady Parker,” Evonne agreed, pulling her paint smock over her striped afternoon dress and tying it at the neck, the action somehow creating a sense of intimacy between them. “For the chat I must go to her home however, as the chat, she will not like coming here. You must ask the Lady Parker if that would be acceptable to her.

  “But today we have the last sitting for the likeness of you. Please to take the chair as before, Lord Sherbourne,” Miss Thibeau instructed as she deftly mixed her paints and prepared her palette.

  “The harp was fine last night, was it not, Lord Sherbourne?” Evonne asked as she worked. “I see Mademoiselle Ashwood with the Lady Parker there. You have found the match for her yet? You follow my advice and find the poet, yes?”

  A vision of Miss Ashwood in Shelley’s arms, kissing, flashed through Sherbourne’s mind as he settled into the chair by the east window and he answered brusquely. “No, Miss Thibeau, I do not think a poet is a good match for a young woman of good family.”

  Evonne looked at him shrewdly. “So the artistes, you think they have not enough of the, how do I say, the good character?” she asked as she began to paint.

  “Miss Thibeau, you make your question difficult for me to answer with courtesy,” Sherbourne replied, knowing her words were intentionally provocative. “An artist may be of good or bad character, as may a person of any vocation. But many of the gentlemen of a poetical turn of mind appear to have their own set of values and those values do not often correspond to those of society as a whole.”

  “Ah, but that is part of their attraction, is it not?” Evonne asked with a smile. “As I tell the Monsieur Earlywine the first time here, we like the person who is not like us, yes? And you, perhaps, you might like the French artiste because she is not like you English, yes?”

  Surprised by the direct invitation, Sherbourne was even more surprised to find himself considering for a fleeting moment what it would be like to accept it. Miss Thibeau had an undeniable charm and the promise of passion was like a thick perfume that filled the air around her. No man could be in her presence and not have a thought of what might be pass through his mind. But even though he had come to have serious doubts about his betrothal to Miss Ashwood since their excursion to Lyme, Lord Sherbourne knew he would not take Miss Thibeau up on her offer. In his heart he knew that what he longed for most after his difficult years in India was to share a country life and have a family with a woman of exceptionable character. He doubted that Miss Thibeau would appreciate either a quiet life or a country life.

  “I like the French artiste to paint my likeness and that of my sister’s cat because her style is so unusual, yes, Miss Thibeau,” Sherbourne answered. “And consider myself fortunate that I have met a young woman with such a talent.”

  Evonne gave a slight shrug, accepting Sherbourne’s delicately worded refusal philosophically. “Then see what the artiste she has done for you,” she invited, putting her palette and brush down and turning the canvas so that Lord Sherbourne might inspect his completed likeness.

  Elisabeth looked up at the painting of Sherbourne which had been hung in the drawing room with dislike. She wished Lady Parker had hung it in her bedchamber instead. It was not that the likeness was not good—Elisabeth had to admit that Miss Thibeau had captured Sherbourne’s character as well as his likeness. One could see the strength, both of character and of body, in the lines of the tanned face, a strength tempered by a hint of compassion and understanding in the eyes. But the portrait was a constant reminder to her both of the times the viscount had spent in the artist’s company sitting for the portrait and also of the fascination the artist seemed to hold for Lord Sherbourne.

  “It is very like, is it not?” Lady Parker asked, noting Elisabeth’s intent gaze at the portrait.

  “Yes, it is,” Elisabeth admitted.

  “Richard has engaged Miss Thibeau to paint Revati as well. He tells me the artist paints animals as well as flowers and portraits.”

  Elisabeth struggled to conceal her dismay at the thought of the charming artist coming to Lady Parker’s town house to paint Revati. Reaching for her embroidery, Elisabeth busied herself picking out some poorly done stitches as she thought about Lord Sherbourne. She could still barely comprehend the change in their friendship. It seemed only days ago that she and Lord Sherbourne had waltzed across the floor at Almack’s, lost in a world of their own. Even had the viscount viewed the kiss with the poet, how could it have so completely destroyed that special understanding of each other that had blossomed during their walk along the Cobb in Lyme Regis? How could it just vanish? Surely he would at least broach the subject and give her a chance to explain?

  “Lord Sherbourne,” the butler announced.

  Elisabeth greeted Lord Sherbourne, searching his face for any hint of warm feelings, but saw only an impassive courtesy.

  “I came to inquire if you would come with me for a drive in the Park,” Sherbourne asked Elisabeth after greeting his sister.

  Hoping the invitation presaged a return to the easy companionship of a few weeks before, Elisabeth hastened upstairs to get her bonnet. Perhaps, she mused hopefully, she had been wrong in thinking there had been a change for the worse between Lord Sherbourne and herself. Perhaps it had been her imagination, fueled by an irrational jealousy of Miss Thibeau.

  But Elisabeth’s doubts crept in again as Lord Sherbourne directed his tilbury to the less-frequented byways of Hyde Park in silence.

  “Miss Ashwood,” Sherbourne finally broke his silence as he slowed the tilbury even more, “I brought you for a drive that we might have privacy in which to speak, as I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

  “Yes, Lord Sherbourne?” Elisabeth replied, instinctively knowing she was not going to be pleased with what was said.

  “When I asked your father for your hand it was with the best of intentions. I remembered you from a child with some fondness and the match seemed eligible in every way,” the viscount began diplomatically, not referring directly to the financial hardship of Elisabeth’s father.

  “But I could not help but see—after you arrived in London—that the betrothal did not appear to have your wholehearted agreement,” Sherbourne continued. “For a time I thought you might become reconciled to it but…” He paused.

  “I have decided it might be best not to announce our betrothal at the end of the season as was planned,” he finished abruptly. “I think we must be happy that we gave ourselves this time of reflection before a public announcement of our intentions was made. It will allow us to end the betrothal with no one the wiser.”

  Elisabeth’s heart dropped and her throat seized up. How could Lord Sherbourne end their betrothal? It could not be. Even in her worst imaginings she had not considered this happening! Surely no gentleman would take this course of action! Overwhelming desolation at the thought of a life without Lord Sherbourne filled her being. And what of the agreement with her father? What would now happen to her brother? Would he lose his patrimony?

  “I will, naturally, undertake to see that your family does not suffer from this change of heart we have had,” Lord Sherbourne added as though he had read her mind.

  “Have…have I displeased you in some way?” Elisabeth asked when she could manage to speak around the terrible thickness of her tongue. “I assure you, Lord Sherbourne, I was not opposed to our arrangement.” Seeing no change in the viscount’s expression she continued, “Lord Sherbourne, we discussed this as we walked along the Cobb but a short time ago. I said then that I had come to be very happy with the arrangement for our marriage and you said the same.”

  “That is what we said at the time but your actions since would a
ppear to indicate otherwise,” Sherbourne said tightly, keeping his face averted from hers and concentrating on the road.

  “What do you mean?” Elisabeth asked, fearing the worst.

  “I saw you allow Shelley to take liberties with you on board the Swallow,” Lord Sherbourne answered bluntly.

  “But…but I did not invite his embraces,” Elisabeth defended herself. “It was unexpected. If you saw the kiss you must have seen that.”

  “Perhaps, but you did not appear to find the kiss distasteful,” Lord Sherbourne countered.

  “I was taken unaware,” Elisabeth explained in desperation. “I know it was wrong but I could not think at that moment. Mr. Shelley meant nothing by it—it is his way. You yourself have told me that the literary set do not abide by the rules of society.”

  “No, but I would expect my future wife to do so,” Lord Sherbourne replied unanswerably.

  Elisabeth fought to keep gathering tears from spilling down her cheeks. She could understand Lord Sherbourne being upset with her for allowing the kiss but to end the betrothal! Such things were not done unless under extreme provocation. Why would he do such a thing? A picture of the French artist and her voluptuous charms flashed into her mind.

  “Is it that you wish to be free to wed Miss Thibeau?” Elisabeth asked abruptly in a choked voice.

  “Miss Thibeau has nothing to do with this decision,” Sherbourne answered shortly. “I feel it is what we both wish, if we are honest.”

  But it is not what I wish! Elisabeth longed to cry out. She sensed that if she insisted on Lord Sherbourne going through with the betrothal that he would not refuse—no gentleman in his position could. But did she wish to marry a man who patently did not wish to marry her? Elisabeth fought desperately not to succumb to despair as she made her decision, pride coming to her rescue. “If this is what you wish, Lord Sherbourne,” she said, marveling that she kept her voice steady and free of emotion.