Jack choked on Brooks’s finest brandy – not on a par with Napoleon’s – and pondered awhile.
Byron being Byron understood the brooding and didn’t interrupt.
“Do you believe us rogues can change, old friend?”
The poet gazed to the ornate chandelier as though seeking inspiration. “‘We know what we are, but know not what we may be.’”
“Gads, no wonder you’re in demand, that’s rather good.”
“Shakespeare.”
Jack twiddled his thumbs. “Oh. Never mind, old chap. Can’t win them all.”
“Don’t I know it.” The poet’s brow creased. “But in answer, I do believe one can change if so inclined. Or perhaps you are not the rogue you thought you were?”
Jack also peered at the chandelier in winsome silence but no poetry emanated, only the reminder of Tam’s sparkling eyes in the lantern light when they’d sat amongst her beloved moths. “What does love feel like, George? You should know, being a poet and all.”
Byron’s eyes twinkled…
“When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past–
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove–
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.”
“Not bad. Is it new?”
Byron returned one of those repressed temperamental looks that made the ladies swoon…and some of the fellows. “No. It’s nine years old. You’ve not read any of my works properly, have you, Winterbourne?”
To cut a sham or tell the truth? Maybe a fudge.
“Au contraire. I’ve perused your texts diligently, my good fellow. Furthermore, I consider theCorsairto be closely modelled upon yours truly.”
“But theCorsairis, and I quote myself, ‘a man of few words’.”
“Well,” said Jack, shifting, “one tries one’s best.”
Byron shook his curls. “Irrepressible you are, Winterbourne, and I envy your nature. You are forever in good humour and the very best of men. Unlike myself, I believe you would make a devoted and adoring husband.”
“I never said–”
“You don’t need to. You have the look about you of one in love. Befogged and yearning all at once.” He winked, emptied his glass and stood. “And you failed to notice Mrs Topley walking past the window in little more than her chemise a moment past.”
George hastened for the door, baggy pantaloons unable to hide his limping gait, whilst Jack welcomed the broad feeling of satisfaction that rooted within.
Love.
He was in love with Miss Tamsyn Penrose.
Ardent.
Pure.
And now that he could love, an emotion he thought this rogue incapable of, then in what other ways was he wrong about himself?
Chapter Thirty-three
