“My lord,” she greeted him as he held out his arm. His heart gave a wild jolt as she placed her hand on his forearm, giving him the excuse of pulling her closer to him.
He leaned in a little, his head tilted toward hers as they began to walk toward the dining room. “Miss Talleyrand.” She smelled of wildflowers, a scent that called upon his memory, demanding that he remember something that kept eluding him.
He pushed her seat in and then claimed the chair next to hers. The table was large. Fifteen people were in attendance, which gave him time to speak with Sabrina.
“I brought some books from my library for you. I thought perhaps you might like them.”
“Oh?” Her brown eyes brightened.
“Yes, some medieval poetry, which I assure you is far more interesting than it sounds, and some rather excellent editions of Sir Walter Scott, including Ivanhoe.”
“Thank you, my lord, I would be quite interested,” Sabrina murmured around the edge of her wineglass.
Peregrine focused on her lips, such a soft pink, like the petals of a budding rose. It was a color that spoke of life to come, of kisses still on the horizon, of whispers yet to be shared, and sweet sighs that gave a man the most pleasant dreams.
“You’re staring,” the woman on his other side said in a low voice.
Peregrine turned his focus to Lysandra Russell, Lawrence’s little sister. She was an eccentric creature, as beautiful as she was intelligent, with dark-red hair and warm hazel eyes that sparked with irritation when she spoke to someone who could not keep up with the fast pace of her mind.
“What?”
“You are staring at the governess. People are bound to notice.”
“She isn’t just a governess,” he muttered back.
“Of course not. All women are more than one simple thing,” Lysandra replied. “But you had best be careful. If you keep staring, it will make her uncomfortable.”
This bit of reasoning got through to him. The last thing he wanted was to upset Sabrina, when he knew how worried she was about her status. He refocused his gaze on the food courses and politely chimed in when spoken to. But when he had the chance, he still hoped to speak to Sabrina. After dinner, he escorted her into the drawing room with the other guests.
“I should retire,” she said to him. “Isla is asleep.”
“Please stay,” he begged.
She lingered in the corner of the room. One of the women began to sing while someone played the pianoforte. Rafe suddenly called out to Peregrine.
“Rutland, you enjoy poetry—come recite something.”
Peregrine shot Rafe a stoic look. “I don’t have anything prepared.”
“Surely you have a classic memorized—all good gentlemen do,” Rafe replied. The entire room watched the two men have a momentary battle of gazes.
“Why is he forcing you to recite poetry?” Sabrina asked in a whisper.
“Because the damned fool has some idiotic notion that I will seduce you away from him and Isla. This is his way of keeping us apart.”
Sabrina let out a soft gasp, which drew his focus to the flush of color now present in her face.
“I really should go, then. I mustn’t upset Mr. Lennox.” She started to leave, but Peregrine risked Rafe’s wrath by gently taking her hand.
“Stay for my dreaded poetry recital?” he asked.
Her gaze dropped to his hand, and a flush of pink crept up her cheeks like slow-blooming flowers. She seemed to debate with herself whether to accept his strange invitation.
“Very well,” she sighed. He caught a glimmer of something else in her eyes, but he dared not give it a name.
“Rutland, now, if you please,” Rafe called out.
With great reluctance, he left Sabrina to stand at the front of the drawing room, where everyone had gathered on chairs and settees to listen. Peregrine tried to erase the glower from his face and schooled his features as he prepared himself.
At first he didn’t stare at her, but instead at the back of the room, as he’d done when he’d been a young man, forced to recite verses in the schoolroom. But soon his gaze drifted toward her, her magnetism too strong to resist.
For weal or woe I will not flee
To love that heart that loveth me.
That heart my heart hath in such grace
That of two hearts one heart make we;
That heart hath brought my heart in case
To love that heart that loveth me.
For one the like unto that heart
Never was, nor is, nor never shall be,
Nor never like cause set this apart
To love that heart that loveth me.
Which cause giveth cause to me and mine
To serve that heart of sovereignty,
And still to sing this latter line:
To love that heart that loveth me.
Whatever I say, whatever I sing,
Whatever I do, that heart shall see
That I shall serve with heart loving
That loving heart that loveth me.
This knot thus knit, who shall untwine,
Since we that knit it do agree
To loose not nor slip, but both incline
To love that heart that loveth me?
Farewell, of hearts that heart most fine,
Farewell, dear heart, heartly to thee,
And keep this heart of mine for thine
As heart for heart, for loving me.
As he spoke the last few lines, it seemed as though only he and Sabrina were left in the room together. Something powerful was building between them, and the flush of her skin matched the warmth of his own.
There was a long moment of silence before Zehra spoke up. “My lord, that was lovely.” The other women were all in agreement, though most of the gentlemen looked bored. Lord Lonsdale was already asleep in a chair, and one of the ladies nearest him prodded him into waking up. He shook himself and realized Peregrine had finished.
“I say, well done, Rutland. Didn’t know you could sing like that. Excellent voice.” Lonsdale clapped a few times, and a few of the women stifled giggles.
“Charles,” Lysandra hissed. “He didn’t sing—he recited poetry.”
“Oh, right.” Lonsdale looked back at Peregrine with a sardonic smile and a shrug. Peregrine sighed. When he looked back toward the corner of the room, he found Sabrina had gone. His heart sank. She hadn’t stayed. He thought of the books he wanted to give to her. He could not chase her down now—everyone would know they were gone, and that would only put her reputation more at risk.
Sabrina lay awake in her bed, thinking over the poem that Peregrine had recited. It was old, perhaps even medieval. She had liked it immensely, and the gentle rhythm as he’d spoken the words had soothed something still wounded inside her. After all these months, she still felt part of herself was missing. She just wasn’t sure what it was.
She quickly banished thoughts of it and him, or at least she tried to. Rafe did not want her meeting with any gentlemen, and she shouldn’t. This was not a social visit. It was her employment, to be here and to see to Isla, not to enjoy herself. She owed it to Rafe to be the governess he needed for Isla.