"I'm having a bad day." His expression was positively angelic.
Alex stood when they entered the dining room. "We thought you'd gotten lost along the way."
"I'm afraid my leg has been paining me a bit today," John replied. "Belle was kind enough to accommodate my slow gait."
Belle nodded, wondering how on earth she was able to keep her lips from twitching. She and John joined Emma and Alex around the small table of the informal dining room. They were served asparagus in mustard sauce, and Emma, recognizing that her neighbor and cousin seemed to be better acquainted than time would warrant, immediately began her interrogation.
"I am so glad you were able to come for dinner this evening, John. But you must tell us more about yourself. What part of England are you from?"
"I grew up in Shropshire."
"Really? I've never been there, but I hear it's quite lovely."
"Yes, it is quite."
"And does your family still live there?"
"I believe that they do."
"Oh." Emma seemed slightly flustered by his odd choice of words but continued the conversation nonetheless. "And do you see them very often?"
"I rarely see them at all."
"Emma, darling," Alex said gently. "Pray give our guest time between questions to eat."
Emma smiled sheepishly and speared a stalk of asparagus with her fork. Before she put it in her mouth, however, she blurted out, "Belle is marvelously well-read, you know."
Belle choked on her food, not having expected the conversation to turn her way.
"Speaking of reading," John cut in smoothly, "did you finish The Winter's Tale ? I noticed you were nearly done the other day."
Belle took a sip of wine. "Yes, I did. And it marked the end of my Grand Shakespearean Quest."
"Really? I'm almost afraid to ask what that was."
"All the plays."
"How impressive," John murmured.
"In alphabetical order."
"And organized, too. The lady is a wonder."
Belle blushed. "Don't tease me, you wretch."
Alex's and Emma's eyes widened over the playful banter that was sailing across the table. "If I remember correctly," Alex injected, "didn't this quest also involve some poetry?"
"I've abandoned the poetry for now, I think. Poetry is so, well, poetic, don't you think? Nobody actually talks that way."
John quirked a brow. "You think not?" He turned to Belle, and when he spoke again, there was a certain fire in his brown eyes that she had never before seen there.
"What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind."
There was silence at the table until John spoke again, his eyes never leaving Belle's. "I wish I always spoke with such eloquence."
Belle found herself oddly moved by John's short recitation and the warm tones of his voice. Something about his speech held her spellbound, and she completely forgot the presence of her cousins. "That was lovely," she said quietly.
"Wordsworth. It's one of my favorites."
"Does that poem have particular meaning for you? Do you live by its sentiment?"
There was a very long pause. "No," John said bluntly. "I try to, on occasion, but usually fail."
Belle swallowed, uncomfortable with the pain she saw in his eyes, and searched for another topic. "Do you also enjoy writing poetry?"
John laughed, finally breaking his gaze away from Belle and facing the table at large. "I might enjoy writing poetry if I ever wrote some that was even halfway decent."
"But you recited the Wordsworth with such passion," Belle protested. "You obviously have a deep love of poetry."
"Enjoying poetry and being able to write it are two very different endeavors. I imagine that is why so many would-be poets spend so much of their time with a bottle of brandy in each hand."
"I am certain you have the soul of a poet," she persisted.
John merely smiled. "I am afraid that your confidence is misplaced, but I shall take that as a compliment."
"As well you should. I shan't be satisfied until I add a volume of your poetry to my library," Belle said archly.
"Then I had better get to work. I certainly wouldn't want to disappoint you."
"No," she murmured quietly. "I'm sure you wouldn't."
Chapter 6
The next day Belle decided that perhaps she had been too hasty in her dismissal of poetry.
After lunch, she changed into a dark blue riding habit and headed to the stables. Inspired by John's recitation the night before, she took with her a slim volume of Wordsworth's poetry. Her plan was to find a grassy hillside and settle down to read, but she had a feeling that she wasn't going to be able to stop herself from steering her mare toward Blemwood Park, no, Brinstead Manor-drat, why couldn't she remember the name of that place? Whatever it was called, it was where John lived, and Belle wanted to go there.
She urged her mare into a trot, breathing in the fresh autumn air as she headed east toward John's property. She had absolutely no idea what she'd say if she ran into him. Probably something stupid; she seemed to ramble on more than usual with him.
"Good day, Lord Blackwood," she tested. No, too formal.
"I just happened to be riding east…" Too obvious. And hadn't she used something like that the other day?