Blossom Time by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

mistress the past several years. When Dick marries, I shall be reduced to little better than a pensioner. I have some money of my own, enough to hire a flat.”
    “What of Sukey?”
    “She will stay at home and have a governess, of course. There was never any talk of my giving her lessons.”
    “I think you are behaving rashly. Surely you and Annabelle can rub along without coming to cuffs in a house that size. It has dozens of rooms.”
    “There speaks the voice of inexperience. And besides,” she added with a new twinkle in her eye, “I should love to live in London.”
    When Lady Amanda’s advances became a little hotter than Sylvester could handle, he rose and moved toward Harwell and Rosalind, where he immediately collared the conversation and brought it back to his favorite subject. With nothing but another lecture on poetry to look forward to, the guests began to speak of a busy day on the morrow as soon as the tea had been drunk.
    “Lord Sylvester must be fatigued after his trip,” Harwell threw in, although his houseguest was by no means inclined to drowsiness. He seemed ready to prose on for hours.
    Sylvester and Harwell accompanied the dinner guests to the front door. “What time will be convenient tomorrow, Miss Lovelace?” Sylvester asked.
    Harwell listened fretfully. Had this dull scald of an evening not been enough to show Roz what her new fellow was like? Tearing after Lady Amanda for half the time and delivering his screeds the other half. No wonder he was so thin; he didn’t even stop talking to eat.
    “Elevenish?” Rosalind suggested, with every appearance of eagerness.
    “Fine. We’ll work out an outline for your autumn poems. You may count on half a dozen pages.”
    “When will you come to Merton Hall to look at the Donne manuscript, Lord Sylvester?” Lady Amanda asked. “Let us make it tomorrow evening. I have a few appointments during the day.” The leer of invitation was in her eyes.
    An evening visit was fraught with peril. Sylvester blushed and said, “So kind of you, but I’m afraid I shall be leaving tomorrow afternoon. I am on my way home to Astonby. Papa is not well.”
    “Pity,” she said, and drew him a little away from the others. “I so seldom get an opportunity to meet a poet. I was hoping I might involve myself in some manner in your magazine. Oh, not as a contributor! I fear that is not where my talents are,” she added, allowing her wicked eyes to suggest her particular talents. “As an investor, perhaps,” she said leadingly. “One likes to do her bit for the arts.” This was added to let Sylvester know she did not actually expect any monetary dividends from her investment.
    “How very kind! Perhaps I could stay a day longer and drop Papa a note.”
    “We’ll be in touch, then,” she said, and patted his fingers familiarly before striding out the door with a predatory smile on her face.
    Harwell was thoroughly annoyed with his houseguest. To avoid coming to blows with him, he suggested that Sylvester take this opportunity of viewing his library while he tended to some accounts in his study. Once in the handsome oak-lined room, however, he ignored the thick leather-bound accounts and sat, frowning at a sketch of Drayton Abbey as it had looked before it was confiscated by Henry VIII and given to a previous lord of Harwell. He thought of life at the hall without Rosalind living nearby, and the frown grew deeper.
    He would miss her. She was as knowledgeable as any gentleman about estate matters and had always taken a keen interest in his doings—commiserating with him during his troubles, rejoicing at his triumphs, and aiding him out of his personal difficulties, which usually involved women. It was nice to have a female friend with whom one could be so comfortable. If she were to marry some local fellow, it would be bad enough, but this freakish notion of removing to London permanently, and under the auspices of that demmed popinjay Sylvester, was sheer