Cecily leaned closer.
“Do you write poetry?”
Aurelian’s silence betrayed him.
Her eyes widened.
“You do!”
The conversations at the table stopped.
Aurelian became aware of every woman turning toward him.
He slowly looked over his shoulder.
“Only occasionally.”
“How occasionally?” Isabelle asked.
“I thought this was a private conversation.”
“You are kneeling three paces away,” Katerina said.
“Nothing about this is private.”
Aurelian looked back at Cecily.
Her expression was entirely too hopeful.
“Will you recite one?”
Aurelian stared at her.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Several others immediately agreed.
“Oh, you must.”
“Just one.”
“Surely you remember one without needing it written.”
Aurelian rose slowly, still holding Cecily’s book.
“I rarely share my writing.”
“Then today is an excellent opportunity,” Lady Primrose said.
Aurelian looked at her.
“I was under the impression your test had concluded.”
“I never said that.”
His expression turned betrayed.
A quiet laugh moved around the table.
Cecily tugged lightly at his sleeve.
“Please?”
Aurelian looked down at her.
That was unfair.
Entirely unfair.
He had survived a royal ball, accidentally created a courtship rumor, and defended himself beneath Lady Primrose’s interrogation.
Somehow, this felt worse.
“Very well.”
Cecily brightened instantly.
Aurelian returned to his place but remained standing, one hand resting against the back of the chair.
He tried to decide which poem would embarrass him least.
Unfortunately, most of the ones he remembered well enough to recite had been written in private, which meant he had never intended anyone else to hear them.
“It is unfinished,” he warned.
“Convenient,” Lady Primrose murmured.
Aurelian ignored her and drew a slow breath.
The terrace had grown strangely quiet.
Even the soft sounds of the garden beyond it seemed distant.
Then he began.
The southern sun kept golden fields
And coaxed the roses into bloom,
Yet every dusk, it raised its eyes
To seek the distant winter moon.
Beyond the hills, a garden slept
Beneath a veil of silver light,
Where frost embraced each quiet leaf
And stars kept watch throughout the night.
The sunlight dreamed of northern snow.
The moon recalled the summer air.
Though endless skies stretched in between,
Each knew the other waited there.
And if they met, the heavens dimmed,
Their shadows joined across the skies.
For even an eclipse could prove
Two distant lights may harmonize.
Silence followed.
Aurelian looked up cautiously.
No one spoke.
His confidence immediately collapsed.
Perhaps he had chosen the wrong poem.
Perhaps it was considerably worse aloud.
Cecily stared at him in wonder.
Isabelle had one hand over her heart.
Katerina’s teasing expression had vanished entirely.
Even the older women, who had spent the afternoon observing him with much greater restraint, seemed genuinely interested.
Lady Primrose had gone still.
“It still needs work,” Aurelian said.
“No,” Cecily breathed.
“It was beautiful.”
His shoulders eased.
“Thank you.”
“Have you never published anything?” one of the older women asked.
“No, my lady.”
“Why not?”
Aurelian looked down at Cecily’s book.
His fingers traced the worn edge of the cover.
“I am not certain anyone would want to read it.”
Katerina stared at him.
“You cannot possibly believe that after reciting a poem like that to a table full of women.”
His face warmed.
“I had not expected the audience.”
“That may be why it sounded honest,” Lady Primrose said.
Aurelian turned toward her.
“It was lovely, Lord Bellafonte.”
The simple praise struck harder than the enthusiastic reactions around it.
Perhaps because Lady Primrose did not seem like a woman who offered compliments merely to be polite.
“Thank you, my lady.”
Cecily tilted her head.
“Was it about Duchess Vaelmont?”
Aurelian froze.
The terrace erupted.
“The southern sun and winter moon!” Isabelle exclaimed.
“The northern garden,” Katerina added.
“It is not about her,” Aurelian said quickly.
Cecily looked confused.
“But she has silver hair.”
“That is coincidental.”
“And she is from the north.”
“Many people are from the north.”
“She is called the Moon of the Empire,” Katerina said.
Aurelian opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He had forgotten that.
No.
That was not true.
Of course he had not forgotten it.
He simply had not considered how the poem might sound when recited aloud to a group of women who had spent the past several weeks hearing rumors about him and Seraphina.
Lady Primrose lifted her tea with perfect calm.
“No wonder the duchess has not denied the rumors.”
“My lady.”
“What?
I am merely observing the evidence presented.”
“It is a metaphor.”
“Yes,” Cecily said brightly.
“For Duchess Vaelmont.”
Laughter swept around the terrace.
Aurelian looked helplessly from one face to another.
“You are all making an extraordinary number of assumptions.”
“The poem made most of them for us,” Isabelle said.
“It did not.”
“The winter moon waits beneath silver light,” Katerina said.
“It is imagery.”
“Duchess Vaelmont has silver hair.”
“So do other people.”
“The sunlight dreams of northern snow.”
“Bellafonte does not have snow.”
“Precisely.”
Aurelian looked toward Lady Primrose for assistance.
She took another calm sip of tea.
He should have known better.
“You invited me here,” he reminded her.
“I did.”
“Surely that creates some obligation toward the welfare of your guest.”
“I have provided tea.”
The women laughed again.
Aurelian lowered himself slowly back into his chair.
Cecily remained beside him, looking immensely pleased with herself.
He looked down at the faded blue book in his hands.
He had survived Lady Primrose’s test.
He had apparently earned her approval.
He had received one of the most thoughtful gifts anyone had given him in years.
And somehow, in the process, he had given Evelina an entirely new rumor.
This one rhymed.