A Rogue of One's Own
Vaguely appalled by his unnatural preoccupation, he relaxed his grip and forced his gaze back onto Cecily.
“And what do you enjoy doing for a pastime nowadays, Ceci?”
She blushed at being addressed with her old pet name. She sipped her wine and cast him a coy glance over the rim of her glass. “I’m afraid you shall think me forward if I tell you.”
Darling, there is nothing you could do in your lifetime that I would consider forward, he wanted to say. He gave her a smile that came out wolfish. “Try me.”
She leaned a little closer. “I do like to try my hand at poetry, too.”
He tutted with mock horror. “I declare I am shocked.”
She giggled, very prettily.
“Will you present some of it tonight during the recital?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, oh no. Perhaps one day. I’d choose the piece I thought of when you entered the reception room with Lady Hampshire’s cat in your arms.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yes. It is about a cat, you see—a kitten, to be precise.” She had leaned in closer still, wrapping him in the warm scent of her rose perfume. There was no way around it. She very much wanted to recite her poem to him.
“A kitten,” he said. “Would you do me the honor and recite it to me?”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she protested duly.
“You don’t know it by heart?”
“I do, it is not long.”
“A short poem—that is rare. I’m afraid I must hear it now.”
“But I could not, not here at the table.”
He shook his head. “You are not half as forward as you led me to believe, are you? How disappointing.”
She bit her bottom lip. “I suppose I must, since you insist,” she said, the color in her cheeks high. She lowered her soft voice to a murmur and began:
“Hark! Who hears the kitten’s cry,
So sweet, so soft, so yearning?
She’s lonely in the black of night,
And those shadows, so concerning!
Her siblings gone, the bed so cold
Where is master, to whom she’s sold?
Oh, it’s such a cruel fate,
To mew and shiver, fear and wait.
But! Here comes young master, after her demand,
His caress doth fear destroy,
Cupped gently in her master’s hand,
The kitty purrs again with joy.”
His gaze was riveted on her upturned face. Her expression was perfectly guileless. Mildly expectant.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is this a figurative or a literal poem?”
Cecily gave a slow blink. “I’m afraid I don’t follow?”
“It is about an actual cat, then, whiskers and all.”
“Well, of course. I adore kittens. I shall happily leave the crafting of metaphorical meanings to the gentlemen. Although I do remember you being fond of my aunt’s cats at Wycliffe Hall, so perhaps you don’t consider them entirely unworthy of a stanza or two.”
“They are worthy.” One wily feline in particular, he thought darkly.
Ceci’s eyes brightened; she was taking his agreement as a compliment. Etiquette, and the proverbial noose around his neck, demanded he give her a real compliment on her accidentally salacious monstrosity of a poem. A non-cynical, non-rakish one. Briefly, he was at a loss.
“It has a good rhythm, your poem,” he finally said.
She looked cautiously delighted. “And is the rhythm important?”
“Some would say the rhythm is everything.”
She tilted her head. “And what would you say?”
That you play a good game of seduce-the-male for a purportedly shy and lovely lamb. Men made of less depraved stuff than him would be feeling tall and wide like Hercules by now, under her ever admiring, maidenly blue gaze.
He looked into her eyes and leaned closer. “I have always supported the idea that it hardly matters what you say, but it matters very much how you say it. So yes, much is to be said for a good, steady rhythm to provide a satisfying experience.”
“Ooh,” she breathed. A hectic flush spread over her face.
He decided she sensed that he was being lewd but failed to understand the specifics.
He picked up his glass, and, drinking, he studied her angelic features and imagined a life where she was his wife. She’d expect regular husbandly things from him: pretty children, being kept in the fashion to which she was accustomed, compliments. She wasn’t delicate, but she looked malleable as butter and was trained to please her husband. She would be more complex than that, secretly, but he’d never really know her thoughts if he did not care to hear them—she would accept it if he pursued his own endeavors elsewhere. It would be conventional, life with Cecily. He would become horrifically bored after a week and make her unhappy. It wasn’t her fault. He was not suited to care for helpless creatures, or even the self-sustaining ones. Even had she been his perfect foil, the fact that Rochester had chosen her made her the last person he’d consider for the position of his wife.
Cecily squirmed in her seat, and he realized he had been staring at her intently.
He emptied his wineglass. The time for Scotch could not come soon enough.
* * *
The ducal banquet was surprisingly good. Claremont’s kitchen served a unique blend of French and rustic cuisine and Lucie hadn’t indulged in such fine food in years: perfectly round, golden pies; choice pieces of tender game and fish; well-seasoned sauces; and a bouquet of colorful vegetables. It was enough of a delight to distract her from what had almost transpired on Montgomery’s stable floor a few hours ago . . . No. No, she would not think of the stable floor—again. Or of the feel of soft hair between her bare fingers or the solid male body against her own.
She stabbed her fork into the pie on her plate. The crust broke with a crunch and a warm, savory fragrance wafted up. Her eyes drifted shut, and the chatter around her faded. When had she forgotten how much she loved to eat?
She took a big, impolite bite. Heaven. Her housekeeper was a marvel, but she wasn’t a cook; but then, she ate mindlessly half the time anyway, her thoughts circling the desk in the drawing room like eager vultures while her body was sitting at the kitchen table.
“The cooks have outdone themselves,” she said to Lord Melvin when she realized that she had been enjoying her pie in greedy silence, leaving her table partner in a lurch.
Melvin had to gulp down his food. “It’s certainly lengths better than the new refreshment service at Westminster,” he said, dabbing at his lips with the napkin. “I wish they would reopen Bellamy’s; the veal was ghastly the other day.”
Lucie gave him a sardonic smile. “I would not know.”
Bellamy’s, the canteen of Westminster, hadn’t admitted women activists while in operation, and she was not entitled to join the male politicians for the in-house refreshments.
Melvin gave an amused shake. “Well, you do seem to be everywhere; it is hard to imagine there are still places in Westminster Palace where Lady Lucinda should not unexpectedly pop up.”
Her brows rose. “Why, it almost sounds as though I were haunting the place, Lord Melvin.”
“Enough people would say so,” he said with equanimity.
This was not going according to plan—her notoriety should not be part of any conversation here at Claremont.
Melvin’s dark intelligent eyes turned speculative. With his beakish nose, it made him look like a magpie contemplating a heist. “Would you do it,” he asked, “take up a seat in Parliament and endure the luncheon food?”
“Of course,” she said without hesitation. “And I will. One day.”
Melvin nodded. “You must work harder on Gladstone, then.”
She frowned at the unsubtle prod. During his recent election campaign, Prime Minister Gladstone had paid enough lip service to the women’s rights movement to raise even her hopes. The suffragist chapters across Britain had thrown whatever support they could muster behind him, had marched and petitioned for him and submitted their policy demands to him in good faith, but during his now three months in office, he hadn’t said a word on the Cause. Business in Westminster coasted along as usual, on the back of empty promises. Soon they would have to harass him, and he would tell them to be patient and wait, as every administration had done before him.
She put down her fork and picked up her wineglass. The Sauvignon was lovely and crisp. It still left a sour aftertaste in her mouth.
“Until I have found a way to actually be everywhere at once, I’m presently not in a position to increase my activities on the Gladstone front,” she said.
“Consider delegating tasks rather than thinking of yourself as irreplaceable,” Melvin said. “Delegating is an art form.”
“Such brilliant advice,” she said blandly. “It had not occurred to me.”
He nodded, politely or obliviously. “You see, the curious thing about causes is that they usually continue well without you. The question is whether you can continue well without the cause. Now, have you read Montgomery’s amendment proposal yet?” He chuckled. “But of course you have. What is your opinion?”