Lara Temple - The Reluctant Viscount

‘Not Carthage! Dido is done to death!’ a voice exclaimed and Adam turned around, dragged back from his memories. A man of about sixty was walking down the lane, slightly hunched and with his hands clasped behind his back. He caught sight of Adam and stopped, one hand on the cottage gate, the other extending an accusing finger in Adam’s direction.

‘Carthage will just not do! A different setting is called for!’

His eyes were a paler green than Miss Drake’s, but this was unquestionably the acclaimed poet William Drake.

‘What about Glasgow?’ Adam offered.

‘Glasgow?’ the poet asked, aghast.

‘It is certainly different,’ Adam explained.

They both turned at the sound of a husky laugh.

‘Why not, Father? You might start a new literary fashion,’ Alyssa said as she stepped out of the cottage and headed up the short gravel path towards the gate.

‘Are you acquainted with this philistine?’ Mr Drake demanded.

‘This is Lord Delacort, Father. Lord Delacort, this is my father, Mr William Drake.’

‘Aha! You are the hedonist!’

‘Father!’ Alyssa exclaimed angrily, but Adam merely laughed.

‘You honour me, Mr Drake, but I doubt the original Greek hedonists would consider me worthy of the title. And I don’t think philistine is quite appropriate either. Perhaps you might care to try again? Third time lucky?’

Alyssa giggled and her father threw her a venomous look, swinging open the cottage gate, which gave a squeal of protest.

‘Alyssa, did you find the name of Aeneas’s brother-in-law?’

‘Alcathous, Father.’

‘Alcathous, of course. Well, I am not to be bothered further today. My Aeneas is at a most delicate stage. Good day, Lord Delacort.’

Alyssa remained standing by the gate as her father stalked into the cottage.

‘I am so sorry he—’ she began ruefully, but he cut her off.

‘Don’t apologise. You are not accountable for him.’

She frowned at the annoyance in his voice and pushed slightly at the gate, which squealed again.

‘Fine. I won’t. You are as bad as he is anyway.’

‘Now, that is a worthy insult. Much more effective than your father’s.’

She smiled reluctantly and as her eyes settled on the book in his hand she flushed.

‘I was wondering if you planned to return my book. Mr Milsom was mortified when he realised you hadn’t delivered it as promised.’

‘I almost didn’t. I am only on the fifth chapter. But form prevailed. Do you mean to say this book is for you? Somehow I had thought it must be for your father.’

Her eyes lit up with laugher once more, but there was embarrassment there as well.

‘Hardly. Father does not indulge in reading fiction. He considers all contemporary writing outside of his own to be a waste of ink and paper.’

‘How very broad-minded of him. Still, tales of intrigue in the Sicilian court are hardly conventional reading material for a young woman.’

She shrugged and the light was extinguished from her eyes, as if a cloud had passed between her and the sun.

‘You are an authority, then, on young women’s reading habits? Why shouldn’t a woman read, or even write, about adventures, and travel...or whatever she wishes?’

Adam raised his hands in surrender.

‘I’m not saying they can’t or shouldn’t. Merely that they usually don’t, that is all. I should have known no standard definition would apply to you. I apologise for even suggesting it might.’

‘Your apologies are almost worse than your insults, Lord Delacort. Admitting that I might be right on the grounds that I am peculiar is hardly flattering. If that was even your objective, which I doubt!’

‘Not peculiar. Special,’ he offered. ‘Exceptional?’

She shook her head, but one dimple threatened to appear.

‘I can see you are well used to trying to talk yourself out of trouble. But if this is a sample of your usual efforts, I am surprised you have managed to survive so far.’

‘I am usually more skilful. Fearing for one’s life tends to sharpen one’s focus. Here, take your book. I will ask Milsom for another copy so I can find out what happens after that very improbable hero tries to... Sorry, I shouldn’t reveal the plot...’

Her brows drew together in a puzzled frown and again she looked much more like the resolute but overwhelmed young girl he remembered from years ago.

‘It seems strange that you might enjoy a fictional adventure after you have lived through real ones,’ she said wistfully.

‘Real adventures are rarely as enjoyable as fictional ones, Miss Drake. My strongest memories of my so-called adventures are of fear, hunger, dirt and a very firm resolve never to find myself in a similar situation again if I were lucky enough to survive. Unfortunately I tended to forget these resolutions all too often when either curiosity or greed came into play. But for now I intend to only pursue adventures in printed form.’

He held out the book once more, but she shook her head.

‘You may finish reading it, then. I am busy anyway. Perhaps it will keep you out of trouble. Were you heading into town?’

‘Just wandering.’

Her eyes met his and they softened.

‘Ten years is a long time,’ she said sympathetically.

‘True. I think the Hungry Tree has shrunk.’

Her laughter rolled out, husky and infectious. He moved towards the gate.

‘Why on earth are you still here?’

Her brow contracted in confusion.

‘What?’

‘Why are you still living here, in Mowbray? You must be, what...twenty-six or twenty-seven? You should have been married and as far away from your parasite of a father as possible.’

To his surprise she didn’t seem offended. Her eyes shone with amusement and he noticed now that she had only one dimple, conveying an impression of reined-in mischief. Or an internal battle between warring inclinations.

‘And how is marriage any better? I believe I have a great deal more freedom than most wives.’

‘But hardly the same benefits.’

Her eyes met his with a disconcerting directness. A slight flush spread across her cheekbones, but there was nothing coy or flirtatious in the look. Still, he was disconcerted by the tightening of his body. Without thinking he took another step towards the gate, but stopped as three figures on horseback appeared over the rise, heading in their direction.

Alyssa turned towards them, her face losing its animation, warning him what was coming before he even recognised the riders. He sighed in resignation as Rowena, Lord Moresby and Percy approached. He would have happily avoided this particular meeting, but he knew he would have to deal with this moment eventually. It was best to get it over with sooner rather than later. He stood by the gate inspecting the woman who had changed the course of his life and he felt a sudden stab of disappointment and a sensation of being quite old.

Rowena was undoubtedly beautiful, but he could hardly credit he had ever been young enough to have acted as he had. There had been so many women since her, some even more beautiful than her perfect English porcelain loveliness, but none had ever excited the kind of do-or-die fervour he vaguely remembered she’d inspired in him.

Though her betrayal had been very effective in wrenching him out of his infatuation, in some corner of his mind he had sometimes wondered what it would be like to see her again. The reality, as he watched her pull up her horse a few yards from him, was both a relief and a disappointment.

Even her demeanour now, with her lips slightly parted, her eyes cast down in patently false modesty, was as artificial as any actress on stage. He had fallen in love with a beautiful statue and endowed her with all manner of fine qualities which had absolutely nothing to do with the object of his desire. He felt a flicker of both contempt and pity for the boy he had been, that he hadn’t been able to see what even the young Miss Drake had seen so clearly.