Chapter 8 #3
They were interrupted by a group of broad and strapping men in a range of ages.
They all cavorted in a youthful way, however, sloshing their cups of wine so that their waistcoats smelled strongly of the stuff.
Verbena was surprised when the tallest and perhaps eldest slung a meaty arm over William Forsyth’s slight shoulders, nearly causing him to buckle under the weight.
“Ralph, please,” Mr. Forsyth grumbled.
“Is Little Wee Willy boring you fine ladies?” said the interloper.
Verbena had no notion how one might answer such a question.
Mr. Forsyth pursed his lips and closed his eyes as if digging for some inner strength. He then looked to Verbena and Miss Hollyhock, saying, “May I introduce my brother, Lord Formouth.”
Verbena placed the family now. The eldest brother was a viscount of some repute.
No great fortune, though a respectable name.
William Forsyth was the baby of the family, then.
His novels were surely successful, if he was supporting himself thusly and not relying on a military career or business venture as the youngest sons of large families usually did.
“Don’t forget us, Willy,” another pack member crowed.
William Forsyth sighed. He gestured to each man in turn.
“And my other brothers, Mr. Robert Forsyth, Mr. Reginald Forsyth, Mr. Rollo Forsyth, and Mr. Richard Forsyth.” Each Forsyth lifted his hand to cheerily claim his name as it was listed.
“Gentlemen, please meet Miss Hollyhock and Miss Montrose.”
Verbena frowned in confusion. Though the men all shared the same shade of chestnut hair and fine cheekbones, their builds and, indeed, manners appeared so unlike William’s as to be shocking. How strange that such different creatures could be related by blood.
Miss Hollyhock, luckily, was quicker to get the conversation back to a socially acceptable place. “Mr. Forsyth—that is, Mr. William Forsyth—was just telling us about his writings,” she said.
The Forsyth brothers brayed at the sky. Lord Formouth’s drink would have stained William’s coat had he not jerked away from his brother’s hold.
“Isn’t it all so embarrassing?” said Lord Formouth. “I do hope you two don’t go in for that sort of thing.” He leaned closer, wine spilling. “So many respectable ladies these days do, unfortunately!”
Despite being no devotee of the art, Verbena bristled at the notion.
It was not William Forsyth’s fault that men hated the feminine realm and would denigrate any writings aligned with it.
Poetry—now that was where men still acted as kings, dominating their conquered lands.
With the rare exception of poetesses like Flora, the most widely read cantos were all penned by the masculine hand.
Flora. How dearly Verbena wished she could be here. Not only would she surely wield a bow with the skill of Artemis herself, but she’d know exactly what to say to these boors.
A thought struck Verbena then: she could say whatever she liked, even something cutting. She was practically engaged to étienne; there was no need to simper for some wine-soaked viscount’s favor.
Emboldened, she drew herself up to full height.
“I admit, I have not made a habit of reading novels in the past, but you have convinced me otherwise, Lord Formouth. I shall visit a bookshop tomorrow and inquire after Mr. Forsyth’s latest.” She nodded to the author in question.
“If the tastes of ladies lean so heavily in favor of the novel, then surely there must be something to it.”
William Forsyth stared at her with parted lips. His assorted brothers paused in their carousing. The eldest merely sputtered.
“But one cannot deny that ladies’ tastes tend toward the frivolous and unserious,” he said.
“Do they?” Verbena tipped her head in thought. “Yes, I’m sure that is true. Otherwise, the vast majority of men would remain bachelors, would they not?”
The brothers Forsyth seemed confused by this assertion, save for William, who laughed into his sleeve. Verbena gifted him with a knowing look. At least one man knew wit when he heard it.
William Forsyth caught her look and straightened, his mouth curving into a smile.
“Miss Montrose, something just occurred to me,” he said. “My brothers will tell you that I am a miserable shot. I haven’t so much as touched a bow since I was a boy.”
“That’s true,” said one of the middle brothers. Rollo? It was difficult to keep them all straight. “Back then, Willy couldn’t hit a target for any price.”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Forsyth said to Verbena, “you might show me the proper stance.”
Verbena watched as the assorted brothers opened their mouths, no doubt to mock their youngest sibling for seeking assistance from a lady.
She was swifter. “Of course. I am a decent enough archer. Come with me—we might be able to concentrate better beneath that shade tree.” She indicated the spot with the tip of her bow, some yards distant, yet still close to the final set of targets.
They left the conversation to the mumbled jeers of William’s brothers.
Jackasses.
Her irritation was only somewhat mollified by Mr. William Forsyth’s bashful, pinked-cheek look. “I am sorry about them,” he said once they had walked some distance. “They’re awful, I know. You really don’t have to show me how to shoot; it is enough to have escaped their company.”
“Not at all, Mr. Forsyth. You cannot be held to account for your brothers’ rudeness.”
“Nor my lack of archery skills?” He squinted in the bright sunlight at the targets that had been placed on the grass. “I don’t remember the distance being quite so great. You’d think because I was smaller then, the yardage would seem to shrink, but it’s the opposite.”
Verbena laughed despite herself. “Well, the distance will increase when the men take their turns. Right now the field is set for the ladies at half what you’ll be expected to cover.”
“Truly?” His cheeks puffed out while he surveyed the grass with a shake of his head. “Maybe I can convince Lady Croydon to split the difference for me. Seventy-five yards, right in the middle of the gentlemen and the ladies.” He looked over at her with a soft smile.
Verbena tried to hide her mirth. Never in her life had she heard a man suggest he might be anything but a wholly masculine specimen. It was somewhat refreshing.
“I would not advise that, Mr. Forsyth,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand. “Lady Croydon would not find it the least amusing.”
Mr. Forsyth grinned. “Someone might. The only person I care to amuse, in fact.”
Verbena desperately tried to recover her poise. “You might need to amuse more than one person, Mr. Forsyth. It is a party, after all.”
The teasing admonishment seemed to miss its mark, for the man veered terribly into yet more familiarity.
“Please, Miss Montrose, with all my brothers in attendance here today, there are too many Mr. Forsyths gallivanting about.” He gestured to the small stand of men in the distance, laughing and clapping one another on the back.
“Do you think you might call me William?”
It was on the tip of Verbena’s tongue to point out that, abundance of Forsyths notwithstanding, he was the only one in front of her, so there should be no confusion as to whom she was addressing.
Yet the look on his flushed face—beseeching and tender—gave her pause.
There was something familiar about him, though she couldn’t place her finger on exactly what.
Something about his fine-boned hands; his willowy figure; his eyes—it was as if she knew him already, and knew him to be good company.
Yet they had been introduced only moments before, and he had given no indication that they had ever met previously. Surely he would if they had. He seemed so eager to know her; there would be no reason for coyness.
“I believe I could,” she said, then recklessly added, “William.” It was not the first time Verbena had engaged in bold flirtation, but never before had it given her a thrill in the depths of her belly. It sent a tingling all the way to her toes.
William’s smile was as radiant as the sun itself, though it did not beat down at her the way the sun did now.
It was a gentle thing. “Oh,” he said. “Thank you for that.” The relief in his voice was in no way disguised.
Verbena had never met a person of such openness.
How strange, that he had lived twenty-some years and had not yet hidden away the most vulnerable parts of himself.
Everyone in society did, to some degree, Verbena included.
It almost made her want to invite him to use her own Christian name in conversation. Almost. The implications should she allow such an intimacy, however, were not favorable.
Perhaps her hesitation showed on her face, for William said, “I would never, of course, expect you to reciprocate. If there were a handful of Miss Montroses strolling the grounds, that would be another matter.”
Verbena relaxed a fraction. It was an unusual sensation, being able to relax, even a little, in a man’s company. “Naturally,” she said. “I suppose I should be thankful that Miss Montroses are a rare thing of late.”
William did not laugh at her small display of wit. He merely looked at her—not as some of the other men of the party were looking at the ladies’ figures as they tested their bowstrings, she noted. His gray eyes passed over her face and lingered there as if he could see into her soul.
“I’m sure a Miss Montrose is more than rare,” he said in a quiet murmur. “She is, I think, unique.” He regarded her from beneath the fall of his thick lashes. “Would it be terribly forward of me to ask if I might read your poetry sometime?”
“My—what?” Verbena had told only Flora and, she supposed, a few members of the Calliope Club that white lie. “Where did you hear that I write poetry?”