Graham nodded, watching her with a strange look in his eyes. Ursula could not quite interpret it. What did it mean? What was he thinking?
I never know what he is thinking,she reminded herself wryly.I am not quite so astute in reading people as I believed I was. My own husband remains a mystery to me.
There was no time to reflect on the irony of that. Graham began to speak, guiding her around the vast library.It was well arranged, with everything in its place. There was fiction, naturally, comprising of the silliest novels silly did not necessarily mean dull, of course all the way along to properly improving books of history and science.
“And poetry, of course,” Graham added, pausing before a large section of bookshelves. He placed his hand reverently on one shelf, letting his fingers trail across the spines. “We have all the popular poets Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Shelley, Byron, Sappho, and many more.”
“You seem to enjoy poetry most of all.”
Graham shot her a quick, searching look. “Some people believe that poetry should not be a gentleman’s domain. Or a lady’s, really.”
“They are fools, then,” Ursula responded curtly. “Some of the most beautiful lines ever were written as lines of poetry. Who could argue against the genius of Shakespeare, for example?”
Graham shrugged. “Those who don’t understand it, I suppose.”
She eyed him for a moment, drawing her lower lip in between her teeth.
“When I came in, you seemed to be writing something in a notebook,” Ursula found herself saying. “May I ask what it was?”
Graham hesitated, glancing sharply at her. “I… If you must know, it was a poem. I like to write poetry of my own.”
She brightened. “Oh, how exciting! May I read a line or two?”
Graham cleared his throat, glancing aside. “Perhaps later. The poem is really not finished. Not yet.”
To her surprise, Ursula felt a flare of disappointment. She realised that shewantedto read his poetry. No, it was more than that. She wanted to prolong the encounter, she wanted to stay here with Graham.
“Forgive me,” Ursula managed at last. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
He gave a faint smile. “You didn’t pry. Don’t apologise, please.”
On impulse, Ursula extended her hand frankly for a handshake.
“We should be friends,” she said at last. “I shall need all the help I can get to manage Lord and Lady Thornbridge, to say nothing of Lady Annabella.”
Graham gave an amused huff. He took her hand but did not shake it. Instead, he leaned forward over her hand, pressing a hasty, warm kiss to her knuckles.
The touch sent tingles running down her arm, warmth curling in her chest. He released her hand almost at once and threw a wry smile her way.
“I shall leave you to your reflections, then,” he finished. “I imagine I shall see you at dinner, Ursula.”
With that, he was gone, hurrying out of the library and leaving Ursula alone and somewhat baffled.
Chapter Fourteen
“We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.”– John Keats
The dinner party, it seemed, was not going well.
Ursula had attended countless dinner parties over her life, of course, but this one… well, this one was something of a disaster.
The soup course had only just been served, and already Ursula knew that it was going to be a long and miserable night.
Lord and Lady Thornfield kept shooting her angry little looks, which they seemed to believe that she did not notice. Lady Annabella was almost smug, smiling and preening as if she believed the party was entirely thrown for her benefit.
“I must say, Lady Ursula,” Lady Annabella said suddenly, “it is a pity you wedded so early in the Season. You’ll miss all the fun. Oh… forgive me, of course, I quite forgot! Your Season was over already, I suppose.”
“Annabella, hush!” Lady Thornfield chided, although it was fairly clear that her heart was not in it.
