Guilty Series (40 page)

Plain dishes. Porridge. Boiled beef and cabbage. Things like that.

This time, she could not stop it. Laughter bubbled up inside her and spilled out like overflowing champagne as she remembered that conversation. “You are an impossible man!” she said between gasps of laughter. “Truly impossible to tease me so.”

Dylan looked up from his own soup. That tiny smirk was gone, replaced by such innocent perplexity that she could not stop laughing. “Grace, Grace,” he chided, “how can you say such a thing? I am only thinking of your preferences.”

Still laughing, she said, “Because of the soup, I surmise that several more courses of wholesome food await me in the kitchen? Boiled beef and cabbage perhaps?”

“You did express a fondness for that particular dish.”

“So I did. Pray tell me, what courses are you having?”

“Tail of lobster for the fish, my personal favorite, though I am certain you would not care for it. I know your preferences rebel against such rich food. Although”—he paused, laugh lines deepening as he looked at her—“I heard that Mrs. March did prepare two lobsters. She does know how much I favor that particular dish.”

“Two lobster tails for one man? Such extravagance.”

“Is it not? I believe Mrs. March has also prepared for me a saddle of lamb, and one of beef, baby carrots, and asparagus. For dessert, I asked her to make two of my favorites, a lemon torte and a chocolate soufflé. Not that the desserts would be of any interest to you, of course.”

She looked over at his vichyssoise, then at her own porridge. She cleared her throat. “I believe I am changing my opinion on gastronomic matters, and coming round to your way of thinking,” she said gravely.

“Are you indeed?” When she nodded, Dylan signaled to Osgoode. “I believe Mrs. Cheval has changed her mind,” he said.

It was clear the butler and footman both knew what he meant, for Osgoode waved the footman toward the door of the dining room, and a few minutes later, she was also being served a bowl of the chilled potato and leek soup.

She picked up her spoon and smiled at him. “Do you know what the worst thing is about you?”

“Now, this is a splendid topic for conversation between friends. Continue.”

Still smiling, she said, “You are a scoundrel, and by all rights, I should dislike you. But I cannot. Every time I think I dislike you, you do something that changes my mind.”

“Thank you.” He tilted his head to one side, seeming to reconsider. “I think.”

His pretended doubt widened her smile. “It is a backhanded compliment, I know, but it is true. I want to dislike you, but I can't.”

“Why should you want to dislike me?”

“Because I should.”

“Do you always do what you should?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“If that is true, Grace, you are missing a great deal of what life has to offer.”

“Perhaps,” she said, not adding that she had already seen a great deal of what life had to offer, and most of it had not been worth the price. She deliberately reverted to small talk. “I read in the
Times
this morning that the British population is now estimated to be nearly fourteen million people.”

Dylan lifted his eyes toward the ceiling with a sigh. “Grace, please do not give me such dull subjects. Let us discuss something interesting. Politics, for instance.”

She smiled, playing along. “If you insist upon so much excitement, I can oblige you. The Reform Bill is finally expected to pass the House of Lords this spring.”

As the meal progressed, conversation became a game, with each of them trying to outdo the other by presenting the dullest news possible. By the time dessert arrived, they agreed Dylan had won for his announcement that Lord Ashe had fainted at the news that his second cousin once removed was in fact marrying a man in trade. Both of them proclaimed it shocking as a footman presented them with chocolate soufflé and lemon torte.

She studied the tray, trying to make up her mind.

“Are you certain you wouldn't prefer a plain, boiled pudding?” Dylan asked, watching in amusement as she wavered, unable to decide.

“No,” she answered, giving him a gentle kick under the table. “I shall have both.”

“Both?” Dylan looked at her as if shocked. “But Grace, boiled pudding is easier on the digestion. Much more sensible to have that.”

“I am being sensible,” she told him as two dessert plates were placed in front of her. “Since I cannot make up my mind, the only sensible thing to do is have both.”

“My wicked ways are rubbing off on you,” he warned her as the footman presented him with two plates as well. He devoured both desserts quickly, with the careless enjoyment of someone accustomed to such luxuries. She was not so hasty.

Grace alternated between the two, taking a bite or two of sweet, smooth chocolate soufflé, then following it with a bite of tangy lemon torte. She could not remember the last time she had tasted anything this good. The only sweet she'd had in months was sugar for her tea, and even that tiny luxury had stopped quite some time ago. Dylan was leaning back in his chair, seeming fascinated simply to watch her eat. Finally, she set down her fork with a satisfied sigh.

“You still have a bite left,” he pointed out, gesturing to the chunk of lemon torte still on her plate.

She looked at it and started to pick up her fork, then changed her mind. “I cannot,” she groaned. “I am too full. If I have that last bite, I shall be sick. It has been so long since I have dined like this.”

Osgoode and the footman took away the dessert plates and set out fruit and cheese. Osgoode presented Grace with a selection of dessert wines, and she chose sherry. The butler then poured a brandy for Dylan, and all three servants left them alone in the dining room.

Dylan lifted his glass, looking at her over the rim. “Now that dinner is over, I think we should leave trivial subjects aside and talk about something important.”

Grace looked at him with suspicion. “Why am I feeling that you have a particular topic in mind?”

“Because I do. I want to talk about you. I want to know how a girl of Cornish gentry, who has seen me conduct in Salzburg, became a charwoman. How a woman who obviously came from breeding is reduced to selling oranges on the street. Grace, what happened to you?”

She wished she knew the answer to that question. She looked at him helplessly. “Many things have happened to me, things I choose not to discuss with anyone. My past is a painful subject for me. Please do not ask me about it.”

“Very well,” he said quietly. “Then we shall have entertainment instead. What would you like?”

Relieved, she said, “Why don't you play the piano for me?”

“I'd rather you play your violin for me.”

“For you?” She shook her head. “Never.”

“Do not talk as if you have never played for me before.”

“Only once, and it was the only thing I could think of.”

“To stop me, you mean?” He stared down into his glass, silent for a long time. Then he said, “You were right, you know.” His voice held a strange, soft note. Even sitting only two feet away, Grace had to lean forward to hear him. “I never tried again. I thought of it. I contemplated where, how, and when. I even loaded the gun once.” He would not look at her, but instead kept his gaze on his glass, his thick lashes lowered. “I never managed to get the barrel to my head. I kept hearing your voice telling me it would be wrong.”

Grace did not know what to say, so she said nothing.

He swirled the contents of his glass and took a swallow, then leaned back and looked at her. “When you practice your violin, what music do you choose?”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Mozart.”

“Mozart!” Dylan straightened in his chair, set his glass down, and looked at her as if appalled. “That shallow fellow who never composed a truly meaningful piece in his life?”

“Sorry.” She tried to look apologetic. “I love Beethoven, too, but he is harder to play.”

“Worse and worse! What ever happened to loyalty? You are supposed to be my muse, remember?”

“The truth is I don't like to play your music.”

“What?”

“Well, your pieces are extremely difficult! They are so intricate they tire out the musician. Really, you are more complicated than Beethoven. Do you know how difficult it is to play your Violin Concerto Number 10? I can never play it correctly.”

“You sound like a student, Grace. The soloist should always play a concerto from the heart. The only correct way is the way you feel it should be.”

“Playing a piece is all about the musician's feelings, is it?” she said, smiling, glad she got to tease him now. “Then why are you so difficult to work with?”

“We have never worked together,” he said with certainty as he leaned forward to pluck a grape from the basket of fruit on the table. “I would remember if we had. In any case, I am not difficult. Who has been telling you such monstrous lies?”

“Only everyone! Why, every musician I know who has worked with you in orchestra complains how hard it is to satisfy you.”

“Being the soloist for a concerto is very different from playing in the orchestra, and you know it perfectly well. Besides, musicians in orchestra always complain.”

“We do not.”

He picked up another grape and nibbled on it. “Do, too.”

She grabbed a grape for herself and gave him a
humph
of indignation. But before she could argue with him further, he spoke again. “Where have you played orchestra, Grace? Not in England.”

“No, Vienna and Salzburg. Paris, too. As you know, the Continent is much less prickly about having women in the orchestra. In England, they make it so difficult. Musician's Livery and all that.”

“Silly, if you ask me,” he said, taking another bite of his grape. “I would put you in my orchestra.”

“Even if that were true, you could not get by with it. There would be no end of a fuss from the men. Unless I donned a gentleman's evening suit, put on a false mustache, and cut off my hair to fool the other musicians.”

He gave a shout of laughter. “You couldn't fool them if you tried. I saw that highwayman costume, remember? As for cutting your hair—” Dylan broke off, and his amusement faded as he glanced at the braid coiled on top of her head. “As for cutting off your hair,” he said with slow, deliberate emphasis, “it would be a travesty. Do not even consider it.”

“I appreciate the compliment, but I do not need your permission.”

“Humbling me again, are you, Grace?”

“I am trying.” She looked at him again, doubtfully this time. “I do not think it is working.”

“But it is,” he said as he popped the last bite of his grape in his mouth. “I assure you I am quite humbled by you. Alas, it is not me you adore, but Mozart—”

“That is not fair!” she protested. “I like your music, truly. I only meant—”

“Like it? Is that all?” He looked so seriously vexed, and yet she knew from something in his eyes that he was teasing her again. “God save me from the day when the only emotion my music evokes is liking. You see, Grace, how you can humble me without even realizing it.”

“Absurd man!” she cried, laughing. “What is it you want of a muse, then? You want me to sit beside you all the day long and tell you how wonderful you are, is that it?”

“Yes,” he said, laughing with her. “Yes, I do.”

“As if that would truly inspire you! You would just become conceited and complacent and would never write another thing.”

“I would tell you how wonderful you are if you played for me,” he said, turning the tables on her.

“As you already pointed out, I have played for you.”

“Five years ago.”

“And at the ball only a few nights ago.”

“In an octet. I want to hear you play solo.”

She made a wry face. “I am no virtuoso.”

“I prefer to judge that for myself.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Play my Violin Concerto Number 10 for me.”

“What?” No more teasing. He was serious now. Dismayed, she shook her head. “No, no. Oh, no.”

“Why not? Friends play for each other.”

She bit her lip and looked down at his outstretched hand. In desperation, she searched for an excuse. “I can't do a violin concerto. I've no orchestra to accompany.”

“I shall accompany you on piano,” he said, taking that lame excuse away from her.

Grace started to panic. She did not want to play in front of him. This was Dylan Moore, after all, not some hostess giving a dinner party who needed musicians. She had never been chosen to be the soloist. It was not even as if she had ever hungered for it. “No, please, I would rather not. It would be far better if you played, and I could listen. That would be so much better, more entertaining for both of us.”

He shook his head, unsmiling, still holding out his hand. “Grace, I am not going to be auditioning you.”

“I have not played as a soloist. And when I played for you alone, my only goal was to stop you from—” She broke off, then said, “You know what I mean. I wasn't thinking about the music. I just caught up my violin and started to play.”

“Then do it again now.”

She did not want to do it. There was something so unnerving about the idea of playing for him. His music was beautiful and complex, and she was not skilled enough to do it justice.

“I shan't laugh,” he promised, “if that is what you fear. I shan't be critical.”

When he took her hand and pulled her to her feet, she let him. Reluctantly, she went with him into the music room and let him send a footman to her room for her violin case. She wanted to ask him for the sheet music, but soloists weren't supposed to need the sheet music. She took up her instrument and moved to stand beside where he sat at the piano. “You won't like it,” she said.