Page 27 of The Wallflower Ruse

He chewed on his lip. “I can’t, truly I—”

Mrs. Spence sprang up, her red curls quivering, and snatched the top paper from his hand. “Very well, I shall read it—” She perused a few lines. “How could you write this drivel? You stupid boy, this is not the way to excite a young lady’s affections!”

He bit his lip. “I know, and I shall try harder, you’ll see.”

Mrs. Haraldson took the paper, wrinkled her nose, and agreed. “I don’t like to be unkind, but it’s unworthy of you, Mr. Pearce.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am; those were only some vulgar thoughts,” he lamented, taking the paper back. “I couldn’t think what to say, so I jotted some doggerel. Not at all suitable for ladies. Not meant for them, either. Unfortunately, a young man’s thoughts are not always pure.”

Mr. Haraldson chuckled. “Come on now, Pearce. Read your doggerel. Everyone is eager for some amusement.”

“Considering the conversation between the ladies this evening, I doubt they object to vulgarity,” Restive said. “In fact, they may enjoy it.”

“Do you really think so?” he asked and then answered himself. “No, you’re making game of me. They’ll hate it.”

“So what if they do?” Restive shrugged. “They’re only women.”

Lucinda controlled an urge to slap him. “We shan’t hate it, Mr. Pearce. Go ahead. Please.”

The poet gave a doleful sigh. “Very well, I shall.” He took a deep breath. “Her golden tresses are the sun—” He paused. “Golden because that is the color of the sun, more or less, and the word sun was needed for a rhyme. The lady of my dreams does not have golden hair.”

“Fine,” Lady Alice said impatiently. “Get on with it.”

He swallowed visibly and began again.

“Her golden tresses are the sun

Guiding the wanderer desperate

Her blushing bosom is great fun

But beauty matters not a whit

For deeply as these charms may move

What makes me break into a sweat

Of longing desire, of fervent love,

Is a lady of superior intellect.”

He fixed a desperately pleading gaze on Lucinda. She smiled and began to clap, and others, laughing, joined in. “Bravo, Mr. Pearce!” she said. “Doggerel or not, you have described precisely what we intellectual ladies long for. We cannot help but be pleased that although you appreciate our feminine attributes, you love our minds even more.”

“Hear, hear!” Restive said, walking away from his two lovelorn companions. “Who wants a lady with more hair—and bosom—than wit?”

“Precisely!” Lady Alice said with scarcely a quiver. “Is there more?”

“No more doggerel, but soon I shall pen a true ode,” Mr. Pearce said, his relieved grin almost maniacal. “When one falls in love at first sight, one’s perception changes drastically. Now the heavens have opened and inspiration has descended upon me.”

Mrs. Haraldson raised her glass of wine. “A toast to inspiration! We look forward to your next poem and fervently hope it is worthy of both you and your true love.” She motioned to the footman to serve the refreshments, and Lucinda, fearing a tête-à-tête with Mr. Pearce, hurried to sit with the now gloomy Alfreda.

Miss Cox came over as well and introduced her to Miss Collins, the blonde girl who’d been sitting next to Restive. They chatted amiably for a while, partaking of tiny watercress sandwiches and delicious drop cakes.

Miss Collins seemed far less upset than Alfreda. “Thank you for distracting Mr. Pearce from me,” she said. “He’s been mooning after me lately, so I may be the one with the golden tresses. I was rather taken with him until he invited me to accompany him to one of Lady Tollister’s evening parties.” She wrinkled her nose as if at a noxious odor.

“Lady Tollister? I don’t believe I’ve heard of her,” Lucinda said.

“She holds parties where there is intelligent discussion, and cards too, but the people who attend are not at all respectable, or if they are, they go there choosing not to be, if you know what I mean. My mother would never allow me to attend, and Mr. Pearce should have known better than to ask me.” She smiled ruefully. “Be warned, for he may well ask you next.”