In the Arms of an Earl (3 page)

“Yes, but an appetite for something more desirable than food.” Lucinda giggled, while Jane retained her composure. Lucinda studied her for a second and then sniffed dismissively.

“Mark my words, Jane. There’s a daring romantic hiding within your stern breast. How could there not be? All those books you’ve read must have bred something of the poet within you. Still waters run deep, Papa always says.”

“Your papa is quite mistaken, I assure you.” Jane stretched, her back creaking in protest from the unnatural pose she’d been forced to hold. She ran her hands over her tightly corseted frame for some relief and opened her arms, flustered.

“Look at me, Lucinda. I’m not a celebrated beauty like my sister Amelia or clever like Rosalind. I have mouse-colored hair. I am more comfortable at home than at a party or ball. Men do not like girls like me. Marriageable men, at least.”

The old doctor in her village had always enjoyed her company, but she suspected it was for her lack of squeamishness over a new disease or accident victim than anything else. Other than he, she’d been ignored by the eligible bachelors in Weston, few though they were.

“There is nothing wrong with your hair,” Lucinda said firmly. “Mice have lovely fur, if you get a good look at them. All soft and velvety brown. I should think most men would prefer a wife who remains at home. They do not have to spend all their money on a woman who would rather read than hire a new modiste every season.”

“Not the men in Weston, I’m afraid.” Jane left the bench to examine the painting. Posed over an imaginary loom, her hands looked slender and white, not nail-bitten and stained with ink. Her figure was lithe and feminine, not boyish and lacking in curves.

The crowning beauty was her hair, a glorious mane of richness hanging over her shoulders in voluptuous waves. Lucinda had painted in tiny strands of pearls, which echoed the dewdrops on the spider webs emerging from the loom, as if to pound into the observer the portrait depicted Arachne.

“Except for the hair, it doesn’t look remotely like me, though it is lovely.”

Lucinda dabbed a dot of pink on the canvas, transforming her from a bookworm into the rival of a jealous goddess.

“It is quite you, Jane, I assure you. I would not be surprised if you received many proposals after this is shown at the Royal Academy.”

Though it was improbable the painting would ever have an audience at the Academy, it was more unlikely she would receive a marriage proposal.

“Marriage?” Jane shrugged. “We are of the same mind, Lucinda. Besides, I think gentlemen only want ladies who spend their days mooning after them. I would never lose a moment’s care over any gentleman. And young ladies who do are silly creatures.”

Lucinda’s laugh tinkled like a bell. Jane had imitated it once, but a guttural bleat had come out of her mouth instead.

“I quite agree with you, Jane. ’Tis a pity we cannot live in the same house together as cheerful old maids, and you can play all day whilst I paint.”

“Why would anyone want to play the pianoforte all day?”

Jane’s stomach fluttered at Jeremy’s entrance. She returned to the pianoforte and began picking out a tune.

“Jane and I were discussing how silly it is to moon over a suitor rather than pursue more worthwhile hobbies.”

Jeremy’s grin brightened the room, and Jane was sure he knew it. “Perhaps the pursuit of a husband is a worthwhile hobby.” He gave Jane such an inscrutable stare she lowered her gaze to the instrument again. He cleared his throat. “Miss Brooke, will you play for us tomorrow? Father’s having a guest, and Lucinda’s playing is dreadful.”

“What about your playing, dear brother? You had Mr. Colton’s instruction when he was here last spring. You should provide the entertainment, and Jane and I will pretend to listen.”

“I hardly paid any attention to shriveled up old Colton. Besides, our guest doesn’t like my playing. I play far better than he does,
now
.” His laughter sounded innocent, but Jane glimpsed the cruel twist of his mouth.

Lucinda jabbed the end of her brush at him, but he dodged her, walking instead to where Jane sat. He took the sheet of music off the rack in front of her.

“Herr Haydn will do. Practice the rest of the day, and you should impress Blakeney. I should have played more as a boy, but I’d much rather ride. Do you ride at all, Miss Brooke?”

“I…no, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Colonel B. is coming?” Lucinda interrupted. Her eyes widened. “Ooh, Jane—take care you play your very best. Father’s friend is a celebrated musician. I’ve always refused to play when he’s here, for fear he shall show me up with remarks and instruction.”

Jeremy laughed again. “You mean he
was
a great musician. Can’t play much anymore, can he?”

Lucinda frowned, and then giggled. “You should not say such things, Jeremy. Oh, Jane, are not men impossible?”

Jane stole a glance at him from under her lashes. Thick, golden hair, like his sister’s, curled gently over his perfect ears. She’d never seen a more comely gentleman, for as much as she adored her sisters’ husbands. But their presence did not cause butterflies to wobble around inside her stomach.

“Impossible, indeed,” she replied, although she could not fathom why a man should be more or less impossible than a woman.

Jeremy tossed the music aside, and Jane slapped her hand on the papers before they scattered to the floor. “Miss Brooke, you have nothing to fear from stodgy old Blakeney. Your playing isn’t half as bad as Lucy’s. Besides, we’ve no other entertainment at home. Edinburgh will be a refreshing change after all the dullness around here.”

“Jeremy’s going into the law,” Lucinda explained.

He snorted. “As if I have a choice, Lucy. Father’s ultimatum was either the law or soldiering. We’ve seen how soldiering turned out for Father and Blakeney. No, thank you.” He sauntered out the door, his hands in his pockets and whistling under his breath.

Jane hid her dismay at Jeremy’s behavior. Her father would have put a stop to such antics, but the widowed Colonel Parker was nothing if not an indulgent father. She turned to Lucinda. “Your father’s guest is a talented musician?”

“Talent does not apply in this case. Papa always said if Colonel B. had not gone into the regiment, he might have known great success as a musician. It’s very sad, really. He lost his heart to one of the season’s beauties last year, but she spurned him because of his hand.”

“What’s wrong with his hand?”

“Why, he lost his hand in the war, and no one will have him. Mind you, if he were the firstborn son, no one should mind if he had three hands. Papa always says…”

Jane paid no attention to what Papa always said. Her heart pounded as if she’d walked a mile. Colonel Parker’s guest sounded identical to the composer she’d so admired and accidentally insulted. It was not possible. Flustered, she clung to Lucinda’s words. “Who was the lady?”

“Susanna Olivier. I think Jeremy knows her. He knows everyone in town. We can ask him later.” Lucinda had plainly grown tired of the subject. “I do hope you’ll permit me to plait your hair. It will be wavy tomorrow, when I paint you as Aphrodite. You did promise you’d sit for me again.” Lucinda frowned. “Jane? Are you quite all right? You look as if someone just walked over your grave.”

Jane forced a wan smile. “I am well. I was only wondering…” She pretended to peruse the sheet music on the pianoforte. “Was your father’s friend—was Colonel Blakeney at the musicale today? There was a composer, F.B.—”

Lucinda pursed her lips. “I should think not. He hasn’t written a thing in years. Besides, he would have said hello, and I did not see him.”

Jane wanted to suggest Lucinda had been too busy gossiping with her friends to notice anything else, but pushed her worries aside. After all, the initials F.B. were not so uncommon. “How tragic this Miss Olivier rebuffed the colonel.” Surely, the colonel and the composer were not the same man. Only her lingering embarrassment caused her to worry.

“I do not see what all the fuss is about. Love is a very curious thing, and I, for one, do not care to look for it.” Lucinda gave a little giggle. “Unless he was as wealthy as Croesus.”

“I would never marry for wealth.” A memory of the composer’s pained expression resurged. Jane gave herself a little shake. They could be the same person. Only a man suffering from a broken heart could compose such beautiful music. Perhaps he’d written
The Symphony of the Sea
as a tribute to his lost love.

“You would marry for love, Jane? I mistook you for a pragmatist.”

“I shouldn’t marry at all, I suppose.” Lucinda appeared amused by her statement, and Jane hastily reached for her tea. The cup clattered on the saucer, spilling some of its contents.

“Perhaps we will make it an early night.” Lucinda dabbed at the mess with a napkin.

Jane barely noticed her friend’s smile. Her vision still burned with the image of the composer’s eyes. Even in the sun-filled assembly hall, they’d glowed with a light all their own.

Chapter Three

Jane drew her shawl around her shoulders and tiptoed down the corridor. The carpeted stairs were quiet beneath her slippered feet as she made her way through the dimly lit house to the drawing room. Easing the door closed behind her, she hastened to the fireplace and stoked the dying embers.

The room warmed up slowly, and she sat at Lucinda’s pianoforte, running her fingers lightly over the mahogany cover. Anxious her performance for Colonel Blakeney be as efficient as possible, she’d stayed awake until she was sure the household was asleep.

She savored the moment before lifting the lid. The keys glowed faintly in the firelight, their patina still gleaming from the irregular practicing of its owners. If she could only have such an instrument! She’d hoped to receive one from her sisters, but the money they’d sent her family had gone toward improvements on the house and farm. Her mother had allowed her a small sum for her own use, but it was paltry enough she’d spent it on new books and music.

The heat from the fire filtered through her night rail. She flexed her fingers and shrugged off her shawl, letting it fall behind her to the floor.

She started with a warm-up exercise, which flowed into a more difficult piece, a minuet she’d practiced at home. Frustrated with her performance, she abandoned it in favor of a Scottish air. It was one of her favorite pieces, and the music poured richly from her nimble fingers as she played, echoing within the empty room.

Her energetic playing was not enough to soothe her yearning spirit. The haunting melody of the symphony—F.B.’s symphony—had never left the empty spaces within her heart. She took a deep breath before she plunged joyously into the depths of the music, the notes spiraling around her as she played it all from memory. When she reached the end, she retained her final posture, as if the movement of a single hair would cause the moment to vanish.

“Bravo.” An oddly familiar, deep voice murmured from the corner.

Jane rose with a startled cry, slamming her hands down on the keys. The unmistakable form of the composer she had so admired stepped out of the shadows.

There was only one reason why he could be at Everhill. F.B. was Lucinda’s Colonel B. She wondered why she should be surprised.

Colonel Blakeney bowed, and when he straightened, the composer’s dark eyes regarded her with wary goodwill.

She snatched her shawl from the floor, her fingers tangling in the fringe in her haste to swirl it over her shoulders.

“I didn’t know anyone was here. I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir.”

The backs of her knees banged the bench, and it wobbled. She stumbled around it, her heart pounding an erratic tattoo. Should she pretend not to recognize him? What must he think of her, playing in the middle of the night with wild abandon, clad only in her night rail?

His facial features appeared distorted in the flickering firelight. “It is I who must apologize. I’m afraid I have disturbed you. Miss Brooke, is it?”

“Yes,” she murmured. She licked her dry lips, half-fearing what he might say about her poor attempt at duplicating his music. She’d been off by two counts on the last few measures and had covered up badly. Worse than his criticism would be a censure of her unintended insult at the musicale.

Though she feared being forward, her gaze was drawn to him. He’d discarded his coat and wore a brocade waistcoat over his white shirt. His left sleeve was sewn closed at the wrist. She recalled what Lucinda had said about his losing the woman he loved because of his injury. If only she could apologize for the earlier incident when he’d thought she pulled away in disgust.

Her gaze flicked back to his face, and his cool stare acknowledged she’d looked at his empty cuff. To ease the growing tension in the silence around them, she hastily said, “My father and Colonel Parker are old friends. I have been a guest here a month.”

Why should she explain her presence in the house? She should have foregone conversation and hurried out of the room as any proper young lady would.

Before she decided, he smiled. It was just the barest hint of a smile but reassured her somehow, and she remained where she was.

“Our host mentioned you when I arrived earlier. Tell me, do you often play at night, when the house is asleep?”

“Most of the house is asleep.” She bit her lip at her impertinence. He had obviously made a joke to settle her nerves.