Page 17 of When the Viscount Seduces
“That’s fascinating,” Miss Price said, pulling out the chair in front of the books.
Lazarus rushed to hold it for her. “My apologies,” he murmured.
She slid onto the chair and looked up at him over her shoulder. “No need.”
He took the chair at the end, and she turned her body toward hm. “How did you manage at Oxford? You did go to Oxford, or have I confused you with someone else?”
“I did go to Oxford, but I struggled. I covered for my inadequacies by being an unserious student.”
“But you weren’t really, were you?”
“At Oxford, yes. There was nothing else for me to be. I didn’t go to Eton or any other school. Before Oxford, my father taught me personally.” Lazarus hesitated. He never talked about how his father had helped him. But that was because hardly anyone knew of his shortcomings. “I knew everything they were teaching because my father had already taught me. But I wasn’table to adequately demonstrate my knowledge, and I barely graduated.”
“Why even bother going at all, then?” she asked, appearing genuinely curious as she leaned slightly toward him.
“It’s a rite of passage, or so my father said. He didn’t want anyone to question why I didn’t attend Oxford or Cambridge or some other school. I’m fairly certain my father made special arrangements for me. I’m only sorry he wasn’t able to see me finish.” Lazarus allowed a faint smile, but it quickly faded.
Miss Price touched his forearm for a brief moment, her fingers pale against the dark blue wool of his coat. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure he’s very proud of you.”
“I hope so. That is all I want. Which is why I’m going to all this trouble with this speech. I’ll need to memorize it, and that will require your assistance.”
“Yes, that is why we’re here.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Shall we begin?” Opening one of the books to a particular page, she turned it and placed it in front of Lazarus. “I’d like to get a sense of how you read. Can you read this sonnet to me?”
Lazarus took a deep breath and rested his hands on the table on either side of the book. He fixed his attention on the sonnet and attempted the first word. S-h-a-l-l.
“Shawl,” he started, but quickly followed that with “Shall. I. Com…pare. Thee to a summer’s day. Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease?—”
“Stop.” Miss Price gaped at him. “You’re an excellent reader. You started slowly, but perhaps you’re just nervous?”
He gave her a sheepish smile. “I know this sonnet. As soon as I recognized the first few words, I recited it from memory. This is why I want you to help me memorize the speech.”
“How did you memorize the sonnet?”
“My father would read things to me over and over. Eventually, I would memorize something. I then matched up the words I knew in my mind with how they looked. But when that same word is somewhere else, I can’t always recognize it immediately.” He hated that sensation—he knew the word, but couldn’t quite form it in his mind. He got there, but it was slow.
“This is fascinating to know and will help me. Memorizing words and using that skill to recognize words when you see them is an excellent adaptation. Perhaps we can work specifically on honing that ability.” She seemed so engaged, so eager to help him, even excited by the prospect.
For the first time since his father had died, Lazarus felt at ease reading with someone else. He could not overstate his sense of relief and even joy. He met her gaze with gratitude. “Thank you.”
She grinned. “Let me find a sonnet you don’t know.” Waggling her brows, she pulled the book back in front of her and flipped through some pages, her eyes moving quickly as she scanned the words.
“Are you reading that fast as you go?” He couldn’t keep the awe from his voice.
“Er, yes.” Pink dots bloomed in her cheeks as she glanced at him. “But I am very familiar with this book. I love Shakespeare’s sonnets.” She kept turning pages until she abruptly stopped. Sliding the book toward him, she gave him a mock stern look. “This one, but you must tell me straightaway if you know it.”
He laughed softly. “I promise.” Sobering, he concentrated on the text. The letters looked foreign for a moment, which was normal. The first few words were easy, thankfully. “From you have I…be-en…been…ab…sent in the…” He hated words like the next one. Multiple letters that when put together were difficult to read. “Sp?—”
“Spring,” she said softly, her tone warm and encouraging. “That is a challenging word, I think. S, p, and r is a complicated sound. Spr. Can you repeat that?”
“Spr. Spring. Sprightly. Sprig. Spray. Spread. I can say the words.” He frowned. “I just can’t read them very well.”
“You will.” She pulled the parchment and pencil to her and wrote the letters S P R. “I’m making notes about what we can work on. Shall we continue?”
He went on reading the sonnet, pausing often. She didn’t rush him, nor did she hurry to help him, but she did when he needed it. She was the epitome of patience and gentle support.
“You read wonderfully,” she said. “Your voice is a lovely baritone. I do wish I could hear you deliver your speech in the Lords.”
“You’ll likely be sick of it by then,” he said with a half smile. He expected to be, but that would be for the best. He needed to know it inside and out.
