In Bed With Lord Byron

hadn’t thought I’d have to
work
for him.
    ‘What do you think Byron looks for in a woman?’ I asked Keats tentatively.
    ‘The only face Byron can ever love,’ said Keats, after much thought, ‘is the one he sees in his mirror.’
    Ouch. OK. So Keats wasn’t going to be much help here.
    I tried thinking up chat-up lines. I made a list in my head:
    1. What’s a poet like you doing in a place like this?
    2. D’you come here often (not a cliché, surely, as it’s only 1813)
    3. What do you think about critics who debate about whether you’re really an Augustan or a Romantic poet at heart? (a bit too deep, man)
    As I made my way through the crowd, I became horribly aware of Keats following behind me like a shadow.
He’s keen on me,
I realised in horror. Great. Just the sort of complication I
needed. Keats was sweet, but he was no Byron. When he saw where I was headed, though, he dropped back. I turned and saw his face crease into a vexed expression – almost one of betrayal. I
gave him a sheepish apologetic smile and then turned back to Byron.
    He was chatting to a woman with peacock feathers poking ostentatiously out of her hair. Several seconds passed and he failed to acknowledge my presence.
    ‘Ahem,’ I coughed blatantly.
    Finally he broke off, turned and swept his eyes over me in a languid, lazy manner.
    ‘I am Lady Lucy Lyon,’ I said in a slightly shaky voice. ‘I’m, um, new in London, and thought I must come to Hobhouse’s party because I’ve heard so much about
you and I do love
Don Juan
’ – oops, he hadn’t written that one yet – ‘I mean, um,
Childe Harold
, and so I thought it would be nice to say good
evening.’ Gulp.
    ‘Good evening,’ said Byron.
    Silence. The woman next to him put a gloved hand over her mouth to conceal a titter.
    Great, Lucy. That was the worst chat-up line in the history of chat-up lines.
    Though it wasn’t all my fault – he was bloody intimidating, and I could sense him enjoying my distress, which only made me squirm all the more, and I was reminded of Heathcliff
saying, ‘
the more the worms writhe, the more I long to crush their entrails
’
.
    ‘You seem to have upset Lady Caroline,’ I remarked, a barb of antagonism in my voice.
    Byron looked completely unapologetic.
    ‘She sent me a lock of her pubic hair,’ he said, relishing the gasp of disapproval from the woman beside him. ‘There were even drops of blood on the letter. In return, I cut
off a lock of Lady Oxford’s hair and sent it to her. Caroline was fooled for quite a while.’
    The woman beside him burst into shrieks of laughter, her peacock feathers bobbing madly. I tried to laugh too, but I was rather stunned. Yes, I had known Byron could be mean, but it was
disconcerting to come face to face with such nastiness in the flesh.
    ‘Well,’ said Byron, yawning loudly, ‘I must speak to my other acquaintances.’ He ran his eyes over me again. ‘Nice dress,’ he added lightly, concealing a
snigger, then strolled off, leaving his cruel smile hanging in the air like the Cheshire Cat’s.
    Well.
Well.
I took a big gulp of wine. What a total, total bastard.
    Keats came edging up. In my tender state, his cloying sweetness irritated me; I felt an urge to lash out, shove him away, hurt him the way Byron had hurt me. Then I saw the affection in his eyes
and I managed a lame smile. We chatted for a short while about poetic scansion, but I could barely make conversation, and Keats, no doubt thinking it was his fault, poor lamb, became more and more
shy, curling up inside himself like a snail. I felt so crushed I decided I just wanted to damn well leave the party and sink into a hot bath. I’d look for the time machine in the morning; I
didn’t much fancy walking around the London streets at this time of night.
    So when Keats drifted away and John Murray came over to ask if I was feeling better, I said, ‘Actually, I’m still a little faint from my fall.’ I touched my forehead, hamming
up the damsel-in-distress act. ‘Maybe you could call me a carriage . . . ?’
    ‘Of course, my dear lady.’ I had a feeling Murray liked playing the role of knight in shining armour.
    But then – horror of horrors – he called over to Byron, who turned, his lips curled in an insolent sneer.
    ‘My dear Byron, this beautiful young woman, Lady Lucy Lyon, requires a carriage home. Perhaps your man could take her?’
    Byron downed his glass of wine.
    ‘I shall accompany her,’ he