“I write poetry,” he said again. A lock of dark hair fell over his eyes and he threw it back. “Have you ever read the verse of Richard Barnfield?”

“I haven’t read much poetry,” she confessed. “I’m halfway through Shakespeare’s sonnets at the moment, but I’m finding them slow going.”

Roland picked up Eleanor’s Champagne glass and leaned toward her. “Shakespeare is all very well, but of course his work is terribly out of fashion. I prefer a line that’s more evocative. Her lips like red-rose leaves floated on this cup…and left its vintage sweeter.”

“That’s lovely,” she breathed. “Did you just write it this moment?”

He grinned at her, and his smile was even more enticing than his intent gaze. “I would lie to you about that, but I don’t want to lie to you, ever.” He handed her the glass. “Taste. Honey from Hyblean bees, matched with this liquor, would be bitter.”

“Where is Hyblea?” It was Villiers, speaking across the table as rudely as had Anne.

Eleanor blinked at him. She was caught in the web of Roland’s words. The last thing she wanted was a geographical discussion. She frowned and turned back to the poet. “Do tell me the rest of the poem?”

“I’m afraid that the rest of the poem isn’t fit for the supper table,” he said with a glance from under his lashes. He put one finger on the inside of her wrist. “This blue vein touches your heart, Lady Eleanor.”

“I would love to know the remainder of the poem,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper.

“So would I,” Villiers put in.

She glared at him. Couldn’t he tell a private conversation when he overheard one? But now everyone was looking down the table, and Roland withdrew his finger as if she had burned him. She twitched with annoyance.

“It is part of my own version of Romeo and Juliet,” Roland said. “I won’t share more; people find poetry tedious. Certainly my family tells me that mine is tiresome.”

“Too flowery, in my opinion,” his father said. “Of course, he’s had quite a bit printed. He’s not just some ne’er-do-well with nothing better to do.”

“Printed?” the duchess said, her tone dripping with disdain.

“Likely you aren’t knowledgeable about the literary world,” the squire told her. “The very best have their poems printed, and no shame in that. The shame is in not printing.”

“Humph,” was Her Grace’s response to that.

“In fact, my son was knighted last year for his poetry writing,” the squire said, puffing up his thin chest.

“A veritable troubadour,” Villiers said. His comment was perfectly pitched to make it unclear whether he meant it as a compliment or an insult.

“When we tragically lost Prince Octavius last year,” the squire continued, “Roland wrote an exquisite verse in his memory. Truly beautiful, and the king himself thought so. He felt it succored him in his time of suffering, and he summoned the lad to Buckingham Palace and knighted him on the spot.”

Roland’s lowered eyes were, perhaps, a bit more humble than Eleanor would have liked, but that was her ungracious, sarcastic nature coming out, and as Anne had told her, she needed to curb that trait. Luckily, Champagne had a mellowing effect.

“Well, let’s hear a bit of this poetry, then,” Eleanor’s mother allowed, in a considerably warmer voice. “Not the piece for Princess Amelia. I can’t abide feeling sad. Something more entertaining, if you please.”

“Here’s a bit from when Romeo promises to climb to Juliet’s window,” Roland said. He put his right hand at his side and it just touched Eleanor’s. “Juliet tells him to come before the lark with its shrill song has waked a world of dreamers. And Romeo promises to climb to her balcony in a ladder wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls.”

His finger barely stroked Eleanor’s wrist.

“Is that it?” Her Grace said after a moment.

“That’s all I can remember,” Roland said.

“Well, I like the idea of a ladder sewn with pearls,” the duchess allowed. “I have a red bonnet sewn with pearls that may be something of the same idea.” She turned to the squire. “Aren’t you a little worried that all this talk of red silk and pearls makes your son sound like a milliner?”

“He’s a clever lad,” the squire said, pride evident in his voice. “He’s never caused me a moment’s worry.”

“Well, that’s more than I can say for my daughters,” she said, glancing down the table. “Eleanor, you are too pink in the face. How much Champagne have you drunk?”

“Not as much as I have,” Anne said cheerfully. She looked at Lisette. “Darling, don’t you think you could rise now, so that we could leave the table before I slip under it?”

“Oh! Are you waiting for me?” Lisette said. “Goodness, and I’m such a slow eater. I eat like a bird.” She took another bite.

Villiers smiled down at her. “A very graceful bird, my lady.”

Eleanor turned back to Roland. “That poem is beautiful.”

“It’s actually not that good,” he told her with a twinkle. “I wouldn’t even try to publish that in its current state. Too flowery, as my father said.”

“Perhaps the ladder could be just silk with no pearls,” Eleanor suggested. “One has to think that pearls are not only ruinously expensive, but uncomfortable underfoot.”

“Depending on the weight of the climber, they might even be crushed,” Villiers said, interjecting himself into their conversation again. “Is Romeo the one who’s fat and short of breath? Or is that Hamlet?”

Roland threw him an unfriendly look. “That sort of verisimilitude has no place in the land of poesy.”

“I’m just trying to point out a logical problem,” Villiers said innocently. “Cleopatra used to pulverize pearls and put them in her wine, after all. While I’ve never stamped on one, I’m certain that they would shatter easily.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Lisette put in. “I have any number of pearls and they aren’t crushed.”

“But have you stamped on any of them?” Eleanor asked.

Lisette stared at her for a moment, clearly searching her mind for the shards of crushed pearls. “No,” she said, jumping to her feet. “Let’s try it!”

Villiers actually laughed, looking up at her. “You are a true original, Lady Lisette.”

Eleanor felt her lips tightening. Glancing at Roland, she saw an expression in his eyes that she guessed mirrored her own.

“Sorry,” he whispered to her, “I’ve lived next to Lady Lisette my whole life. Do you know that my brother is betrothed to her?” And, when she nodded, “It all happened in the cradle, naturally, and it would bankrupt my father to repay her dowry. So Lancelot never comes home. We haven’t seen him in six years. He does write now and then, hoping that she’s run off with someone.”

He held back her chair. “We’re about to watch the demolishment of some pearls.”

A short time later they were all in the sitting room, holding cups of tea, when Lisette’s maid appeared with a string of pearls and a most disapproving look on her face. The poor woman even tried to remonstrate with her mistress.