Love, The Critic

LOVE,

THE CRITIC

By

Amy Corwin

Love, The Critic

Published by Amy Corwin at Smashwords

Copyright 2008 Amy Corwin

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact information: contact@amycorwin.com

Cover Art by Amy G. Padgett

Publishing History

First Edition, 2008

Second Edition, 2010

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Other Books by Amy Corwin

Author Bio

Chapter One

April 1814 - London

Elizabeth Tate eyed the rain-drenched windows with dismay and fought the strong urge to add her tears to the deluge. One did not weep in the middle of one of the most brilliant parties of the Season. Her hand involuntarily rose to the nape of her neck. She twined her fingers into the soft curls before giving them a brief tug in a nervous gesture. With a sense of embarrassment over her lack of control, she glanced around. No one noticed.

However, her unease did not vanish, and there seemed to be no escape. The weather effectively prevented her from fleeing the airless ballroom with the excuse of much needed fresh air. She didn’t know how much longer she could remain calm, sensible and smiling. Her cheeks ached with the effort.

A sudden burst of thunder rattled the panes of glass as if in censure. She jumped and glanced over her shoulder, her hand rising involuntarily again to tug another lock of hair. Liquid darkness rippled behind the diamond-shaped panes. No one else noticed the sounds of the storm above the bursts of laughter and pianoforte.

Staring at the tight clusters of guests in front of her, Elizabeth had difficulties convincing herself to remain inside. She would far rather trade the discomforts of the ballroom for the oblivious wind and rain in the garden. Even a lightning strike could not be more humiliating, or painful, than her current situation.

Oh, Elizabeth! Viola said, catching Elizabeth’s wrist just as Elizabeth took a step nearer the French doors leading to the garden. "I’ve been searching for you since the last dance. They’re going to read from Poems from the Garden."

Oh? Elizabeth asked in a faint voice, her fear coming vividly to life.

They were going to read a poem from her collection.

Surely, she did not deserve that punishment. It was too much when added to her general discomfiture at being roundly ignored by most of the men at the gathering.

Why are you tugging your hair? Viola asked. Then she giggled and glanced around. Are you flirting with someone?

Elizabeth clutched her hands in front of her. No. My neck itched.

It’s that lace—I told you it was too well starched. Viola reached behind Elizabeth’s back and pulled at the falsely-accused lace.

The sound of breaking threads made Elizabeth turn slightly to catch Viola’s quick hands and draw her around to face her. Thank you—that feels much better, she lied.

"Yes—the poetry reading is so delicious. I wish I knew who The Rose is." Viola fixed her brown eyes on Elizabeth’s face, as if she suspected….

Elizabeth swallowed as she stiffened with apprehension. Her hands felt icy despite the flush of heat that rose up her neck, and she clenched her fingers more tightly as they sought to escape once more and assault her curls.

She stared into the eyes of her best friend. She should muster the courage to admit her role in the production of Poems from the Garden. If she said something now, she could be rid of the terrible burden of secrecy. And Viola was her dearest friend, although they had only meet after both arrived in London for their first Season. She would not laugh or make caustic remarks at Elizabeth’s confession.

Most assuredly, Viola would be sympathetic.

I—

It must be some older woman, Viola continued. She gripped both of Elizabeth’s hands tightly with excitement. A spinster—I’m sure of it.

Why would you think that? Elizabeth stared at her, her resolve wavering. Even her sense of politeness conspired with her horror to hold her silent. She could not embarrass Viola by telling her she was wrong, could she?

Viola answered with a rippling peal of laughter. She shook her head, her brown curls escaping from her beribboned lace cap and bobbing over her shoulder. "There’s such yearning in the verses and such an idealized view of the male—most definitely an old spinster."

I—

You know who she is! Viola’s clasp tightened until Elizabeth thought her fingers would snap. Viola squealed. Tell me! You must tell me!

Elizabeth jerked her hands away, rubbing her sore fingers and trying not to frown. After swallowing a lump of nervousness, she squared her shoulders and said, I am—

"It’s your aunt, isn’t it? I knew it!"

It is not Aunt Letty, Elizabeth said, appalled. She tugged a curl until her hand came away with a few strands of hair. She hurriedly shook her fingers behind her skirts to release the clinging, betraying wisps. I was going to say—

"It must be her! It fits so well—the maudlin tone, the pathos, the yearning—"

I beg your pardon, but it is most definitely not my Aunt Letty, Elizabeth replied stiffly. "For one thing, there are no chickens mentioned in any of the poems. Even Viola was aware of Aunt Letty’s inexplicable fascination with poultry, it was practically all she could talk about. And she wouldn’t know a rose from a cauliflower. Elizabeth took a deep, trembling breath and prepared to admit the truth. The poetess is clearly—"

Oh, never mind. There’s no need to twist my nose simply because you know no more than the rest of us. Viola turned impatiently, standing on tiptoes to look over the shoulders of the nearby guests. "Mind you, I’m not convinced it is not your aunt, but it doesn’t matter. I came to find you—Lord Huxley is going to read a poem from that dreadful volume. And then he’s going to read The Critic’s review of it. It will be simply delicious! I’ve heard The Critic completely uproots the entire garden. She laughed at her cleverness before tugging at Elizabeth’s arm again. You know— she said in a dictatorial tone that implied Elizabeth was incapable of understanding her point, garden—as in, Poems from the Garden. So you see, you must come at once."

Oh, no—I’d really rather stay here. The impulse to admit the truth faded abruptly. Elizabeth paled at the thought of listening to an entire room of clever, glittering people laughing at her poetry.

Once more she glanced over her shoulder at the windows. Rain streamed down the panes of cold glass, and a small rivulet snaked through the gap beneath a crookedly closed window. The water dribbled silently and insistently over the sill, leaving a dark trail down the gold-patterned wallpaper. For some obscure reason, the sight brought tears to her eyes. She sniffed abruptly and swallowed her tears.

She must have been quite mad to take her aunt’s advice and send that sheaf of poetry away to be published. A stark, raving lunatic fit only for a cell in Bedlam.

But you can’t stay here! Viola tugged harder, her brown eyes brilliant with laughter and anticipation. "Don’t you wish to hear The Critic’s review? I haven’t read it yet, but he always says such terrible things—it will be quite wonderful!"

I’ve already read it, Elizabeth said heavily. Of course she had read it—it was the first, and hopefully the last, review of her pathetic volume of poetry.

The criticism had indeed been terrible. And it made her see every flaw in her poems with abysmal clarity. His critique had been wittier and more amusing than the poems it discussed, much to her dismay.

Oh, Viola’s shoulders sagged with disappointment. Then you don’t want to hear Lord Huxley—

No, I don’t. But if you think it will be amusing—

You’ll go with me? The light of hope flickered in Viola’s huge eyes. She clapped briefly before clasping Elizabeth’s hand. Come…I want to get close enough to hear.

Lovely. I can hardly contain my excitement at the prospect.

Elizabeth allowed her friend to tug her through the crowds and tried to appear cheerful and unconcerned. Despite her efforts, she felt as if every eye focused on her, burning the back of her neck with their contempt. She caught the eye of one grande dame. The lady smiled and then raised her fan to obscure her mouth as she spoke to the man standing next to her. She stared at Elizabeth and after a nod and chuckle, the gentleman also turned slightly to examine her.

They guessed the truth and were talking about her—she knew it.

Blush deepening, Elizabeth tried to look unconcerned, but she sensed she failed. It was obvious to anyone who observed her that she was embarrassed and therefore had to be the poetess, The Rose. She pulled out a few more fine hairs from the back of her neck before she forced her hand down to her side.

As she passed the staring couple, her free hand escaped her control and rose to rub her nape in an ineffectual attempt to protect the vulnerable spot from their glances. Her face felt flushed and fevered. Her light, silken gown wrapped itself around her constrictively as if to prevent her escape.

Tottering after Viola, Elizabeth felt increasingly hemmed in by the elegant crowd. Viola’s tugging finally ceased as she found a space for them near Lord Huxley. Elizabeth glanced around, her heart hammering. A short distance away stood a tall, handsome man, idly swinging a diamond fob between two long fingers. She stared at him for a moment, startled by the feeling that he seemed somehow familiar. The notion made her even more wretched.

There’s Lord Langley, Viola whispered, nodding toward the man. Her warm breath tickled Elizabeth’s neck. "Isn’t he divine?"

I—

Viola dropped Elizabeth’s hand in favor of a painful grip on her arm. He’s a neighbor of yours, isn’t he? Perhaps your aunt could introduce us?

I don’t know, Elizabeth replied, overwhelmed.

Her pulse jumped when Lord Langley glanced her way. He caught her gaze and smiled, his hazel eyes almost as green as his emerald and silver brocade waistcoat. Her breath caught in her throat, though she managed to nod in return and venture a small, trembling smile.

They say he’s here in search of a wife, Viola continued. And I wouldn’t mind being married to a Marquess. She turned toward Elizabeth. Do try to have your aunt introduce us.

I don’t know if Aunt Letty is well enough acquainted with him, Elizabeth replied, her gaze trapped by the friendly warmth of Lord Langley’s gaze. He looked so sympathetic and….

Uh, hum, Lord Huxley said, clearing his throat. He glanced around the crowd and granted them a small smile. "Let me read to you from the volume, Poems from the Garden. I’m sure you will all enjoy it."

A tinkling cascade of laughter from the crowd greeted this remark.

With a self-satisfied expression on his face, he glanced down at the slim booklet in his hand.

Elizabeth noted Lord Huxley had not even bothered to have a bookbinder decently encase her poems in leather. The pages were simply folded and sewn together without a proper cover.

How little he thinks of my work if he can’t be bothered to pay for leather bindings.

Her gaze strayed back to Lord Langley’s handsome face, her heart thudding. In her childhood dreams, she often hoped he would request her aunt to introduce them. They were neighbors, after all, though they hadn’t met since she was a child. One would think common courtesy would push him into an introduction….

She willed him to glance over and meet her gaze, but he appeared to be studying the floor, waiting for his host to continue.

In a loud, overly dramatic voice, Lord Huxley read a few lines of the first poem, The Rose and The Oak.

Elizabeth felt her blush deepen. Her heart ached, remembering the intensity of her adolescent feelings when she wrote that poem, mourning the loss of her parents. Her few friends were overburdened with parents and siblings, while she had only her aunt. And although Elizabeth loved her, she desperately wanted—needed—something more. So she poured out her confused, painful feelings in verse and imagined parents who stood as the oak to her thorny rose.

Then, as if aware of her anguish, Lord Huxley glanced directly at her as he said the line, Something is wrong—

Her heart momentarily ceased beating.

With this poem, Lord Langley smoothly interjected. He ended his soft remark with a deprecating smile before he returned to the task of studying his diamond fob.

…my strong Oak. Lord Huxley finished in solemn tones.

The crowd broke into wild laughter and clapping.

Lord Langley gave a half-bow and shook his head. The Critic could do better, I’m sure.

"With such material, anyone could do better, Lord Huxley said, laughter breaking his voice. I’ve never read such drivel in my life."

Elizabeth turned partially away, her face burning with mortification. I wrote that poem when I was sixteen. How can they be so cruel?

More! a man behind Elizabeth yelled. Several others took up the demand and stamped their feet to emphasize their desire to hear another poem read with suitable interjections. The women around Elizabeth clapped and laughed. Several nodded their heads, and their feathered headdresses gently swayed with encouragement.

Even Viola smiled wickedly and whispered to Elizabeth, "I do hope they continue. This is much better than I ever anticipated."

Actually, it seems much worse—

I know, Viola interrupted. "I had no idea the poems were so perfectly dreadful. Her eyes strayed in the direction of Lord Langley. But at least we have the advantage of Lord Langley’s wit to elevate this evening’s entertainment."

Elevate?

"Of course! Without him, even The Critic’s review of that wretched collection would be sadly lacking in true interest."

Elizabeth eyed Lord Langley with something akin to loathing. And to think she had wanted to meet him and to lay her hand in his as she gazed up into his hazel eyes.

His cruel, hazel eyes, she amended.

And then he glanced her way and caught her gaze. As a slow smile spread across his lips, her breathing hitched and then stopped. After an infinitesimal nod, he looked back at Lord Huxley.

Their host flamboyantly flipped pages before clearing his throat to announce the title of another poem, The Violet.

It took a moment for Elizabeth to look away from Lord Langley and come to her senses. When she did, she realized he was poised to deliver another gentle barb, aiming it straight for her heart.

Unable to bear the laughter—even if no one knew she was the poetess—Elizabeth edged away from Viola. She managed to escape from the semi-circle formed around Lord Huxley and went in search of her aunt, hoping to persuade her to leave.

As anticipated, Aunt Letty was ensconced in the card room, playing whist with a pair of bosom bows from her own Season nearly fifteen years ago.

Aunt Letty, Elizabeth said, placing a hand on her aunt’s shoulder and nodding at the other players. Are you winning?

No, dear, her aunt glanced up at her with a wrinkled brow. Her expression swiftly changed to a hopeful smile when she caught Elizabeth’s eyes. However, I hear Lord Huxley is going to read your—

Elizabeth gripped her aunt’s shoulder and gave it a warning squeeze, accompanied by a light laugh. Not yet. Lord Huxley cannot have received our dinner invitation yet, dear aunt. You see, I forgot to post it. So he can hardly have read it already, and we cannot reasonably expect an answer tonight.

Dinner? Aunt Letty repeated, her blue eyes blank with confusion. Her friends studied her with interest. Aunt Letty was only in her mid-thirties as were the three other ladies, and all were far too young to suffer from memory lapses as they well knew. They sensed something afoot and gleeful anticipation tightened their faces.

The ladies glanced from Aunt Letty’s thoughtful expression to Elizabeth with avid eyes.

Elizabeth valiantly tried to ignore their stares, although she felt her cheeks flush. She gazed at her aunt and squeezed her shoulder again, hoping Aunt Letty would display even the barest whisper of understanding.

Her aunt’s pale eyes shifted to the left for the briefest second as she considered Elizabeth’s words.

Then, she cleared her throat and blinked. "Oh, yes, dinner. Certainly. And don’t distress yourself over the invitations. Perhaps we should not host a dinner dance so soon after this ball. We would be quite outshone. She nodded. Certainly. I quite understand."

At those words, Elizabeth went limp with relief. She bent and touched her lips to her aunt’s brow, knowing her aunt was telling the simple truth. She truly did understand.

I’m tired, Aunt Letty said in another flash of intuition. Shall we go home?

Oh, yes, Elizabeth replied, letting out a long, deep breath. And thank you. You’re wonderful, Aunt Letty.

Chapter Two

Alexander Jameson, the Marquess of Langley, watched Miss Tate and her aunt leave Lord Huxley’s affair with a sense of puzzlement and frustration. This evening presented the perfect opportunity to obtain an official introduction through their mutual friendship with the Huxleys. He could hardly call on the ladies without it, and he had been aware of a deep, unsettling attraction to Miss Elizabeth Tate for several weeks.

Although she had just come out this Season and he knew little of her character, he felt confident that his interest wasn’t due simply to her appearance. Certainly, her thick, gleaming chestnut hair and large blue eyes drew him. And no one could fail to note her grace and shy smile. But despite her quiet, elegant beauty, there was something more—some depth of emotion—that attracted him.

This evening, however, he did not miss her look of dismay as he exercised his wit against the admittedly weak poetry composed by some unknown poet calling herself The Rose. Due consideration led him to the conclusion that Miss Tate’s sweet nature and good heart made her too sympathetic to the poetry. And although it revealed an abysmal lack of taste in literature, he preferred this evidence of sensitivity to the hardened cruelty of so many debutantes.

Even if he disagreed that The Rose deserved any pity, he admired Miss Tate for her kindness in thinking it.

He shifted uneasily, despite his confident conclusion. What would she think of him? Until tonight, he never worried overmuch about opinion. To be perfectly honest, he enjoyed the role of the heartless ogre, prodding the British into striving for excellence despite their proclivity for lazy mediocrity.

And whoever had written Poems from the Garden needed to be shamed into producing something worthy of her talents. Even Miss Tate would agree, if she knew his motive.

For in truth, he saw glimpses of talent in the poetry of The Rose. And those few tantalizing lines made him all