Blossom Time Read Online Free Page B

years ago. How is he? I haven’t seen him about London recently.”
    “He is married with two sons now, living at Astonby. He is gradually taking over management of the estate. Papa is poorly, you must know.”
    “I am sorry to hear it.”
    Rosalind was glad that Sylvester acquitted himself creditably in this exchange. She wished he would now rise and leave, before anything was said of the reason for his visit. What excuse could she give Harry for it? Lord Sylvester lost his way and stopped for directions was the best she could come up with. She was aware of Harwell’s dark eyes raking her. That frown growing between his eyes indicated curiosity.
    Harwell’s frown had less to do with Lord Sylvester than with Rosalind’s appearance. When had she begun sticking flowers in her hair and wearing low-cut gowns? Even at the local balls and assemblies she was always very modest in her toilette. In her new style, and with that simpering smile on her face, she reminded him of a light-skirt. It annoyed him to no small degree. It seemed inconceivable that this young popinjay had made her so far forget her sensible self.
    These thoughts flashed through his mind in seconds. When he spoke, he said, “I didn’t realize you knew Miss Lovelace. I haven’t met you here before, have I?” His friendly tone encouraged Sylvester’s confidence.
    “Until today, our acquaintance has been by correspondence only, purely professional,” Sylvester said, with a conspiratorial smile at Rosalind. “I dare to hope we have taken the initial steps toward friendship over the past delightful hour.”
    Harwell’s eyebrows rose an inch. “In what field of endeavor have you turned professional, Roz?” he inquired. “Setting up as a mender of prayer books?” His curiosity was rampant, and his speech, which always bordered on the brusque, sounded more angry than curious.
    Sylvester blinked in astonishment. “Milord! Don’t tell me you are Miss Lovelace’s neighbor and are not aware that we devoted four pages of the current issue of Camena to her works! She is the next poet laureate. I use the word in its true sense of being wreathed in laurels, honored above her peers, not appointed by His Majesty to spin off court odes on order, like that doddering fool Southey. Walter Scott had the good sense to turn the post down.”
    Harwell’s jaw fell open. “Roz, a poet?” he exclaimed, and stared at her as if she had been pronounced a contortionist, or a bearded lady. “What do you write about? Mending the seat covers in the church? Stirring up the annual batch of marmalade?”
    Green fire shot from her eyes, glaring him to a stunned silence. He hadn’t seen her so angry since the day he jokingly accused her of trying to seduce the vicar.
    Before she could retaliate in words, Sylvester took up the cudgels in her defense. His chivalry sent a little thrill through her, and created a new sort of interest in this young dandy. He was not all that young either, to judge by his speech.
    “The mind needs ease for contemplation to create great literature, milord,” he said, with an air of gentle reproof. “It has been my experience that it is those engaged in simple pursuits who create the true masterpieces. Wordsworth, for example, strolling through the woods with his sister, and enlightening us and posterity as to his sublime feelings. Think of Thomas Gray. The greatest excitement of his mature writing years was his remove from Peterhouse across the street to Pembroke Hall— and it took a fire to move him that far. Yet there are lines in the Elegy so beautiful they make grown men weep.” He gazed into the distance and blinked away an unshed tear.
    “If a dull life is the prerequisite for great poetry, then I am sure you will do admirably,” Harwell said with a mocking bow in Rosalind’s direction.
    “The hurly-burly of a Season would only dilute Miss Lovelace’s originality,” Sylvester insisted. “She does plan to visit London soon, however. The