ONCE A DREAMER by Candice Hern

Author:Candice Hern
Language: eng
Format: epub

“Ha! I recollect Squire Elliot’s daughter—what was her name? Pretty little blond thing. Must’ve been about ten years old. Simon used to write little love poems and hide them for her to find. Only once, the squire found one of ’em and—”

“That’s enough, Malcolm. Mrs. Tennant does not wish to hear of all my youthful follies.”

“She don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Tennant?”

“Not at all.” Malcolm could yammer on as long as he wanted, as far as Eleanor was concerned. She needed to learn what sort of man his brother was. A libertine, apparently, though she would never have guessed it at first. Who would ever imagine such a man as a rake? A foolish question, when she had herself already become susceptible to his charm. She must strengthen her resolve to maintain her guard around him. What irony if she were to fall into the same trap she had been warning Belinda against.

“Well, I do mind,” Simon said.

“Oh, don’t be such an old poop,” Malcolm said and turned to address Eleanor. “Just trying to make the point that Simon’s been spouting verse practically since he could talk.”

“I am not surprised to hear it,” Eleanor said.

“No? Oh, I say, has he presented one to you already? Simon, you devil. I thought you said—”

“Malcolm!”

“No, I’m happy to say I have not received a poem from your brother,” Eleanor said. “Nor have I had the…the pleasure of reading one.” And frankly never hoped to be so honored. Judging from the florid prose of the Busybody, she imagined his poems would be as awful as those often printed in The Ladies’

Fashionable Cabinet. Treacly things penned by poets with names like Crescenza and Alonzo and Zenobia and Fortunatus.

She did recollect that odd little speech when he was about to kiss her, something about a plump, ripe confection. Good Lord, was that his attempt to wax poetic? And if so, what body part—to use Malcolm’s unpoetic turn of phrase—was he describing? Eleanor wanted to groan aloud.

“Oh, don’t you worry, Mrs. Tennant,” Malcolm said. “You’ll get your poem. He’s probably composing one about you this very minute.”

“Malcolm!”

“Sorry, old chap,” Malcolm said. He seemed finally to comprehend that his brother had gone beyond mortification to anger. “Never could keep my mouth shut after a few glasses of claret.”

“I think you’ve had quite enough for tonight,” Simon said, a bit stiff-lipped. He stood and put his hands on the back of his brother’s chair. “Let us go round up your cronies and send you off to Tandy Hill before I am forced to exercise my fists again.”

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