Page 38 of The Truth about the Rogue
“If you wish to read it, Lord Kentmore, I will listen to you,” she said, trying to keep the smile from her face. “I do hope that you read well.”
He grinned at her and her heart leaped, betraying her.
“I believe that you must be the judge of that, Miss Hawick, and you give your opinion very decisively, do you not? I will not be in any doubt as to whether I read well or not once I hear it!”
At this, Charlotte could not help but smile.
“At least you know me well enough to understand that,” she said, seeing a twinkle come into his eyes. “Very well, Lord Kentmore. I shall listen and I shall give you my thoughts thereafter – on both the poem and the reading.”
Lord Kentmore chuckled, picked up the paper, and rose to his feet. They were quite alone in the drawing room, albeit with the maid in the corner, the door open, and her Mama’s promise to return to them within a few minutes, but it gave Lord Kentmore ample time to read this new poem to her. There had been three new poems in The London Chronicle since the last one that Charlotte had thought well of, each changed from the first she had read. It was as though the author was beginning to step forward, to consider his true emotions, to speak of them with great honesty, and she found that to be rather refreshing.
“Then I shall begin.” Lord Kentmore cleared his throat, his eyes on the paper and a seriousness beginning to fill his expression, pulling his smile away. “A poem from the anonymous gentleman.” Taking a breath, Lord Kentmore set back his shoulders and then began.
“‘I am a ship, sailing the vast, open sea,
The horse which runs wild, freedom in its veins.
Yet, I feel myself constrained,
The wind pulling me, filling my sails,
A scent of home and happiness begging me to return.
To throw aside such freedom, can I bear to do it?
To set my feet to an as yet untrodden path,
But one which will determine it forevermore?
There is but one thing which can demand it of me.
One thing that cries out to make itself known.
The whisper on the wind is your voice.
The scent in the air, your sweet perfume.
Can I give it all to you?
Or will I take to my heels and search freedom once more?’”
Charlotte did not speak for some moments. Instead, she let the words sink into her soul, her eyes having already closed as Lord Kentmore read. There was something about the poem which spoke to her, something which reached out and called to her heart. Lord Kentmore’s voice had held a gentleness to it which she had never heard before, a sweetness to it which had reverberated in her very soul. She had never expected him to be able to read with such delicacy, with such tenderness, and yet, it was as though he had written each and every word and was filling it with his own emotions.
“I do hope that my reading was satisfactory for you.”
Opening her eyes, Charlotte let out a small sigh, then smiled at him.
“I must say, I am astonished.”
Lord Kentmore looked at her, then much to Charlotte’s surprise, came to sit beside her, a fervency in his gaze which she had not expected to be there.
“Astonished?”
“Yes,” she answered, a strange swirling in her core at his nearness. “I did not think that you would read so well, Lord Kentmore.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, ducked his head, and then smiled.
“I am very glad to hear it.”
