“No. The previous marquess used some concoction that smelled of pig fat.”
“I believe itwaspig fat, Mrs S.” He glanced back. “But what about character wise?”
“Grief, no.” She inspected him from boots to curls. “Are you well, my lord? You appear…confused.”
Well, yes, he was. Bewattled and grumpy and… Lud, he missed Tamsyn.
“How would you feel, Mrs S, if there were to be a mistress of the Winterbourne abode?”
He expected a frown or pursed lips.
“About time, my lord,” she said with a wink, running a finger across the hatstand and tutting at the dust. “Stop faffing with those saucy types and settle down.”
Jack scrutinised his face for horrified eyes, blanched cheeks or dismissive lips as he’d always considered settling down not for him, dull even.
But that was before he’d met Tamsyn.
Passionate, valiant and wild Tamsyn.
His eyes twinkled, cheekbones flushed and lips smiled.
∞∞∞
After handing hat and gloves to the butler, Jack sauntered the corridors of Brooks’s in search of company.
The billiards room held a few laughing fellows but he merely nodded a greeting and moved on, instead pausing to peruse the betting book: Lord P and Sir F had wagered on the fastest ducks across the Serpentine, but Mr L had won hands down by swimming the backstroke quicker than any of the wildlife.
Nothing here had changed.
Jack scrutinised the gentlemen idling in the principal salon, considering where to seek counsel, if indeed that’s what he sought.
An acquaintance in a wing-backed chair by the window glanced up from his newspaper and beckoned forth. Perfect.
“How’s married life, old friend?” Jack enquired, lowering himself into the chair opposite.
“She called me insane last night,” was the dry retort.
“Hmm. And in what context? I mean, if said postcoital, I’d say that’s a compliment.”
The moody lips twitched. Trembled. Then curved.
“Winterbourne, only you can make me smile when all else is falling asunder.”
“Come now, Byron old chap, you mustn’t let all those women, massive debts or a wife get you down in the dumps.” He accepted the proffered brandy from a butler and toasted rhyme and verse. “Your poems are all the crack and those cubs of today all wander Covent Garden sporting your tousled hair.”
“Where have you been lately?” asked Byron. “Didn’t see you at the Wiltshire’s last week.”
“Cornwall.”
A perfectly dishevelled eyebrow raised.
“Got mistaken for you five times, and I’m afraid in St Austell I signed three books and posed for a quick sketch.”
“And no doubt left a cartload of women who think they spent a passionate night with a famous poet.”
“Pfff, certainly not, George. I’ve no need of your reputation to live off. In fact, would you believe that tale of the Saxony princess in the balloon even reached Cornwall.”
“That wasn’t even true,” scoffed the poet. “And I simply don’t believe that not one woman took your fancy. I find a pastoral setting causes me to feel quite…inspired.”
