Free At Your Pleasure by Meredith Duran

agreed. “I fear my tongue often miscarries the intention in my brain, which was only to say that, despite the circumstances, it is pleasant to have polished company, particularly after the long months of seclusion.”
    The boy settled like a chicken whose feathers were falling back into place. “Well,” he said, and sniffed—then sniffed again before rooting himself in a nearby chair. “I am not one to criticize a lady,” he said, an outrageous lie.She had heard him criticize any number of ladies in the past. “Lord Rivenham, do tell us the news.”
    She divined suddenly why Lord John’s mood had been so sour from the moment of her entrance: he, too, had received no mail, and must wait to hear the tidings like a boy with his elder.
    Rivenham shrugged. “Very little of political import—apart from the fact that Louis XIV is dead, and the duc d’Orléans has become the regent to France’s new boy-king.”
    Both men’s eyes swung to her, while she swallowed her gasp before it could escape.
    This was disastrous news. The duc was no friend to the Jacobite cause. Worse, the child-king’s health was notoriously poor. If he died, then by the terms of the Treaty of Utrecht, d’Orléans himself would take the throne—but he would need England’s support to enforce his claim. Otherwise Spain’s King Philip would no doubt seize the French crown.
    With d’Orléans as regent, France would now be a friend to England, then. So much for the fleet it had promised to support James Stuart! The court at Bar-le-Duc must be in turmoil.
    “Aside from that,” Rivenham continued, his regard never leaving her, “it seems the Duke of Atholl is King George’s newest and dearest friend. He swore his loyalty most publicly at a levee last week.”
    She felt sicker and sicker. David and all his allies had counted on Atholl’s aid.
    “And in lighter news, Mr. Pope is still enjoying unanimous celebration,” Rivenham finished smoothly. “No other auteur can rival his popularity.”
    “Bah, Pope,” Lord John said. “Another one of these papist recusants. I say we put them all to a sword. See then if they remain so pious.”
    Rivenham looked inclined to ignore this remark. Nora saw no reason not to join his effort. Political conversation was not a safe topic; that much was clear. “I very much enjoyed Mr. Pope’s Rape of the Lock, ” she said. “But I confess—for I doubt it speaks well of me—that my favorite of his poems remains the first they say he wrote: ‘Happy the man, whose wish and care / A few paternal acres bound . . .’”
    Rivenham gave her a wry smile. “‘Content to breathe his native air / In his own ground.’ My lady, I think you would do better to admire poems about wanderers who find contentment in foreign lands, and never dream to return.”
    A flush of confusion warmed her. He was alluding to her brother—and delivering warnings in the language of flirtatious, courtly banter.
    Lord John did not appear not to have perceived the subtext. “Peasant life? I for one am glad he moved on to more elevated subjects.”
    “Oh?” said Rivenham. “Such as a great battle begun by the theft of a lock of hair?”
    Lord John rolled his long-lashed eyes. “I refer, of course, to his translation of Homer. I never bothered with The Rape of the Lock. ”
    “Homer? That is new,” Nora said hesitantly.
    “Yes,” replied Rivenham. “It would please you, I think. The language is plain but deeply moving.” He glanced speakingly at Lord John. “There are no false ostentations in it.”
    Her smile escaped her, widening without her permission. Not only had he hit exactly upon her preferences but he had managed a sly insult to Lord John at the same time. “That does sound lovely.”
    But when he kept looking at her, she felt her smile falter.
    Of course he knew her preferences: they had shared their love of poetry once, and in his face she saw him remembering it now.
    Some magnetic current passed between them. She