The Convenient Arrangement (17 page)

By the elevens! Valeria was correct. Even if Miss Oates had not been smiling as if she had invented him solely for her purposes, her mother's appraisal was a warning that the plumpness of his pockets and his eagerness for a bride would be a topic of intense discussion as soon as he and Valeria stepped aside to let mother and daughter greet their next guest. He did not like being viewed as a prize to be obtained, although he knew that, along with his title, had come the assumption that he was looking for a wife and an heir.

“This is Valeria Fanning,” he said when the silence made his nerves sing like an over-taut violin string. “She is my guest at Moorsea Manor and a very dear friend.”

The wrong thing to say, he discovered. Both Miss Oates and her mother winced in unison as he had said
very dear friend
. Valeria's hand tightened on his arm as she spoke the proper pleasantries, so he knew she had seen their reaction as well.

Valeria steered Lorenzo away from the two women and tried to hide her smile. He was so innocent of the ways of the Polite World, so he needed someone to look after him. Wishing David could have seen him just now, so that her nephew would not be so irritated with what he called Lorenzo's overbearing ways, she wondered if David and Lorenzo would ever be able to be more than civil to one another.

“Most men would be flattered by such attention,” she said as they paused near the empty chairs in the middle of the room. It was a glorious room, reminding her of a friend's house in London, for it was painted the same pale gold and decorated with similar friezes. Three crystal chandeliers hung with huge medallions in the middle of the arched ceiling. A set of doors opened onto a terrace off to the right, and she guessed an identical pair on the opposite wall led to the balcony overlooking the garden to the left of the drive leading up to the house. It was grand, but seemed somehow too familiar. She had been in so many rooms like this while attending so many gatherings like this. It was comfortable, but without the sense of adventure and anticipation she experienced each time she entered a room for the first time at Moorsea Manor.

He shifted uneasily. “I find it uncomfortable to have such private matters openly discussed.”

“Marriage and the begetting of heirs?”

“Valeria, didn't I just say I found this an untoward topic for discussion here?”

She laughed. “You need to become accustomed to it, I'm afraid. Or you could simply marry without delay, and then the matter will be settled unless you find yourself in need of another wife in the future.”

“One, I suspect, will be enough at any time.”

“I didn't mean you should consider marrying more than one woman at a time.”

His lips curved in a wiggly line as if he were trying to keep from smiling as she had, and he chuckled. “I shall leave that to the sheikhs with their harems. How is it that I can jest about such unspeakable subjects with you and still not feel comfortable discussing what everyone about us seems to be discussing?”

“Mayhap because you are such a private man,” she said, following his glance around them. He was right. Everyone was looking at them, bending and whispering, and then turning to look at Miss Oates. “I'm sorry, Lorenzo. I should have insisted that you remain at Moorsea Manor.”

“You didn't know this would happen.”

“I did.”

“You did?”

She wished she had not seen the accusatory anger in his eyes in the moment before his face went blank.
Yes
, she wanted to say,
I thought only of myself and how having you here might deflect the poker-talk about me and Tilden
. She could not say that because she must remember how many ears could be taking note of every word she spoke.

“Miss Urquhart warned me of this,” she said softly.

“She did?”

“Apparently before she married, Mrs. Oates had hoped your uncle would offer for her and make her Lady Moorsea. As she sees it, if a match could not be made for her and your uncle, then one between you and her daughter would even things out.”

He shook his head. “You are making no more sense than Miss Urquhart. I cannot believe that you are heeding her.”

“She seems quite lucid in these matters.”

“If she is right, then why wasn't I invited to this evening?”

“I explained that to you.” She laughed again. “You have to trust me on this. I know of what I speak all too well, for I have seen friend and foe alike use similar tactics in Town. Don't forget. I have suffered through being the target of mindless matchmaking more than once.”

“A widow's lot.”

“A rich widow's lot I was told in Town, but I was able to deflect any interest by surrounding myself with good friends amid large gatherings. Now that I am no longer wealthy, I had hoped the interest would be gone.”

“Then you met Sir Tilden.”

“Yes.”

“Some men do not think of marriage only with their empty pockets.”

She stared at him, puzzled. Would she ever become accustomed to his odd remarks?

“I mean,” he went on, “some men think of marriage as a means to happiness, not wealth. You are a lovely woman, certain to catch a man's eye.”

“A compliment, Lorenzo?”

“A fact, Valeria.” He bowed his head to her and said, “If you will excuse me, I will find us both something cool to drink.”

“Beware of Miss Oates in that direction.”

When Lorenzo frowned, he asked, “Why should I be wary of a woman who clearly respects me or at least my title? I am aware of her intentions, thanks to you, but she is our hostess, and I owe her the duty of not ignoring her.”

Valeria almost gasped. She had thought he would wish to avoid Miss Oates tonight. Hadn't he just been bemoaning the fact that both Miss Oates and her mother were making plans for his future? As she watched him go over to Miss Oates and speak to her pleasantly while he selected a glass of wine from the table, Valeria wondered if she were the naïve one. Lorenzo clearly understood his obligations, and he would be wise to make a match with a lass who was content to remain in daisyville. When he looked back at her, smiling at some jest Miss Oates must have spoken, pain struck her.

“What is amiss, Valeria? You look as if you have lost your best friend.” Tilden's laugh was jovial as he handed her a glass of wine.

“I may have.” She recovered quickly. “I mean, nothing is amiss. I am so glad you and your sister extended this invitation for tonight.”

“It gives me the chance to apologize for distressing you so unwittingly yesterday. I underestimated your grief for your late husband and your despair at the rough straits your brother left you and your nephew in. I apologize if my words brought you more distress.”

She took a sip of the wine. Tilden was sincere. That she was certain. Mayhap she had dismissed him out of hand because his words had reminded her of Austin Caldwell, the bane of her family's future. It was not Tilden's fault that, like Lord Caldwell, his appearance was faultless from his perfectly tied cravat to his sparkling shoes.

“Allow me to apologize as well,” she said. “The way I treated you was beneath reproach.”

“
Au contraire
. You would have had no need to react if I had had my wits about me.” When she opened her mouth to answer, he raised his hands. “Before we spend the rest of the evening in asking pardon, shall we both say we accept each other's apology?”

“Yes.” She smiled, astonishing herself. Tilden Oates had more wit than she had guessed.

“Excellent.” He tapped his glass against hers. “I would like to reveal a deep wish of mine, if I may.”

“Of course.” She was unsure what else she could say at this bizarre turn of conversation. Mayhap Lorenzo was not so odd. Mayhap she had not been a part of courting for so long—or ever, she had to own—that she understood men less than Lorenzo insisted he understood women.

“May you always smile upon me as you are right now.”

She knew she was blushing and cursed her red hair and pale complexion. “You are too kind, Tilden.”

“I hope you will continue to think of me that way.”

“I hope so.”

“As I do.” Miss Oates had her hand on Lorenzo's arm as they entered the conversation. Flashing Valeria a smile, she added, “This is charming. I hope we are not intruding on a
tête-à-tête
.”

“You know you are always welcome in any conversation, Mary.” Tilden's smile was as broad as his sister's.

Valeria looked at Lorenzo who wore an innocuous expression that was neither smile nor frown. What his thoughts might be she could not guess. As she listened to him and Tilden discuss the weather and the current state of the government, she noted how studied Lorenzo's motions were. Only when Tilden mentioned the plan to widen the road through the moors did Lorenzo gesture emphatically, which, until now, was the only way she had seen him emphasize his words.

As the music began to play beneath the conversation, Miss Oates said, “Enough of politics, you two. Men!” She laughed lightly.

Valeria tried to copy that laugh, but it sounded leaden in her ears.

“I understand you are a poet, Lorenzo,” Miss Oates went on like a prattle-box. “Will you share some of your poems with us?”

He shook his head and smiled with regret. “I'm carrying no poems with me tonight, so I must say no. Mayhap next time.”

“Mayhap.” Miss Oates's dimples deepened before she and her brother were called away to speak with another guest.

Valeria smiled. “You tell out-and-outers with rare skill, Lorenzo.”

His eyebrow rose, destroying his attempt to look betwattled by her words.

“I know you have several slips of paper in your waistcoat.”

“You do?”

“I heard them crackle when you were punctuating that point about the road with Tilden.”

“Those, Valeria, are only nascent parts of poems. Words and phrases that may one day, I am fortunate enough, be incorporated into a stanza.”

“May I see them?”

“Here?”

She smiled. “I promise that I will show them to no one else.”

When he took her hand and drew her quickly out onto a wide set of steps leading into the garden, she bit back her gasp. Had she become so instilled with the ways of the
ton
that she was astonished to the point of being speechless by every action that would not be expected in Town? She looked back, but no one seemed to have taken note of them. Every head was bowed in conversation, which she hoped was focused on other subjects.

The moonlight washed over the stones which had been swept clean of any leaves. A chill filtered through the air, and Valeria wished she had brought her favorite paisley shawl with her. That coolness vanished when Lorenzo's fingers brushed hers as he handed her several crumpled pages.

“I believe the moon will provide enough light for you to read without someone peering over your shoulder,” he said.

She nodded and sat on a bench by the edge of the terrace that led down into a garden that had surrendered to the shadows. Amazement filled her as she read the words in his neat hand. For years, she had been a devotée of the work of the great poets, her favorite being the French Marquis de la Cour. She had not guessed that Lorenzo's work would rival the French poet's.

“I like this one, because it seems so appropriate for tonight.
Silver light dropping from a luminescent moon
,” she whispered, letting the words flow over her tongue. “That is lovely, Lorenzo.”

“Thank you. Sometimes the words come so easily, and at other times, not a single one will appear. That's why I write down phrases that might be of use one day.”

“Do you always write of nature?” She put the first two pages on her lap and tried to read the third. It was scribbled as if he had been in a great hurry or in a great deal of agitation.

“It is an ever-changing subject. I—” He swallowed so hard that she heard the sound. Reaching out, he said, “Oh, I didn't realize I had that page with me, too. You needn't bother to read it.”

She turned away from him and tipped the bottommost page toward the light. Her eyes widened as she read,

Swaying with the gentle rhythm of a woman's secrets

Gentle and fair, fiery and demanding, a dream of femininity

Liquid eyes, a frightened doe ready to protect the one she defends

Sister to one and friend to many, loved by whom

Quickly she folded the page and handed it back to him along with the others. No wonder, he had not wanted to share his poetry with the others. To read even these unconnected phrases together, rough and unrhymed as they might be, had revealed too much of his thoughts. She resisted looking back at the music room where she could hear Miss Oates's lyrical laugh.

It was now so clear. Lorenzo was wise. He knew he needed a wife who would be happy here on the moors, one who did not pine for Town. He was a newcomer to Exmoor, and Miss Oates would offer him
entrée
into the small society that ringed the rough hills.

He hastily hid the pages again beneath his coat. Although the light was dim, she was certain she saw the darkening cast of a blush on his cheeks. She wanted to smile, charmed by this man who had depths even he had not dared to explore.

“Thank you, Valeria,” he said quietly.

“Thank you for sharing your nascent poems with me, Lorenzo. I hope you will show me the poem when it is completed.”

“Not all phrases are included in a poem.” Lorenzo cursed himself. How could he have been so addle-pated to give her that page? Thank goodness, her manners tonight were as impeccable as always. If Miss Oates had chanced to see these, she might not have been so willing to hand them back to him with so little comment.

“But most women would be so thrilled to be the inspiration of a poem,” she said.

“Mayhap one of Byron's.”

She laughed, the sound brighter than the moon's glow. “I know of many ladies who have claimed to have inspired him, too many even for a man of his tastes. However, I know as many who would be scandalized at the very thought.”