Prelude for a Lord (28 page)

Alethea and the maid went behind the screen, and the maid undid the hooks on her gown, pulling the shoulder down. She busied herself with loosening the offending thread from the puckered fabric and refurbishing the embroidery design.

The door to the room opened, and Alethea recognized Mrs. Nanstone’s voice, high and grating like her eldest daughter. “What a crush. I do not know how we shall fit in the music room. Oh, good, here is some rouge.”

Alethea remained silent. Mrs. Nanstone heartily disliked Aunt Ebena and by extension, Alethea.

“I believe the concert shall be quite . . . interesting,” said Lady Rollingwood in an uncertain voice. “I have not heard the gentlemen perform in many years.”

“I have never heard them, Aunt, but people say they are excellent,” said the soft voice of Mrs. Isherton, mother to Margaret’s playmate.

“People are more influenced by their money, rank, and handsome faces than their talent.” Mrs. Nanstone had a sneer in her voice.

“Yes, Mr. Kinnier is superior in address and in talent, and yet the Quartet was all the rage in London those years ago,” Lady Rollingwood said.

“Wasn’t there some scandal attached to Mr. Kinnier?” Mrs. Isherton said, but she was interrupted by Mrs. Nanstone.

“And what of Lady Alethea playing a violin? I am ashamed for her aunt, to be sure. It is most unseemly for her to draw attention to her body in such a way.”

Alethea waited, but Mrs. Isherton did not reply to this, and it sent a pang through her. Did Mrs. Isherton believe, as did many others, that Alethea’s violin playing was scandalous?

“She must not be very talented,” Lady Rollingwood said. “She would not have had the music masters available to a man.”

“Her pianoforte and harp playing are most pleasing,” Mrs. Isherton said.

“But she will be playing violin,” Mrs. Nanstone said. “If she is so amazing in her skill, why has she not performed before? There, how does that look?”

“The rouge has done wonders,” Lady Rollingwood said.

“I cannot think how it could have been wiped off between my bedchamber and this house.”

There was the rustle of fabric as the women bustled out, but before the door closed, Lady Rollingwood said, “I have heard that Lord Dommick is helping Lady Alethea with her violin simply because he does not wish Lady Whittlesby’s London concert to go to Mr. Kinnier. Oh, goodness, the concert is about to start.” The door closed with a click.

Alethea stood in silence with the maid for several minutes. A wildness grew in her stomach from the seed of doubt planted with Mrs. Nanstone’s and Lady Rollingwood’s words, and watered by Mrs. Isherton’s silent embarrassment. How could she do this? She would make a horrible mistake and fulfill all the tabbies’ predictions for her downfall.

Finally the maid said, “It is fixed, milady.” She helped Alethea rearrange her gown and did up the hooks again. “You look quite beautiful. And . . . if I may be so bold . . .”

“Yes?”

“Your violin playing is quite lovely. All the servants have enjoyed your practices this past week.”

Alethea smiled at the maid, although her mouth felt tight. “Thank you. You are very kind.”

She opened the door to the room with hands so cold that the door felt warm. She took a step outside and thought she might stumble. She leaned against the wall and staggered to the corner. She must perform. She must make it to the library.

Everything within her quailed. She could not. She could not do this.

The door to the library opened, and Dommick appeared. He took one look at her face and came to her. “What is it?”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

He took her hands and drew her back along the side corridor, away from the prying eyes of guests entering the drawing room down the hallway. “What is it?”

“I can’t do this,” she whispered.

“Yes, you can.”

She gasped in a few more breaths. “I need . . . a moment . . .” But it seemed the more she breathed, the more lightheaded she became.

He drew closer and grabbed her shoulders. “You can do this. I believe in you.”

Her entire body trembled. She wanted to explain about the women’s words, about the fear and pain, about feeling so alone with no one to understand her now that Calandra was gone. But she couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry, her heart rate faster than a galloping horse.

His hands tightened on her shoulders. And then his head blocked out the light as he swooped in to kiss her.

She had never been kissed before, and he was not simply touching her. She could feel him all around her. She could somehow feel his heart beating with hers, she could hear it in her ears. His lips
were warm and firm, and the knot inside her slowly unwound. Her hands touched the silk of his waistcoat, and he was solid and dependable. His very presence was sheltering like an oak tree.

He ended the kiss and looked into her eyes. She could breathe again, and she filled her lungs with the tang of lime, the woody scent of oak, the sharp, warm musk scent that rose from his skin.

In his eyes was something avid and yet wishful. She caught a glimpse of the vulnerable part of him that he seemed never to show.

And then he retreated behind an invisible wall. He took a deep breath, which seemed to wipe the yearning from his eyes, and he straightened, although his hands remained on her shoulders.

She should not have lost control. Not in front of anyone, not in front of a man, and not in front of
this
man. Especially because of how he made her feel so alive.

“I am sorry.” She strived for a steady voice. “I was quite . . . out of my mind. I daresay we both were.”

He dropped his hands from her. “Yes.”

It was not necessary for him to be quite so quick to agree.

She straightened, stiffened her shoulders, steadied her knees. “I am ready.”

He offered his arm, for which she was grateful, because she was not as strong as she pretended to be. They entered the library, and as soon as they opened the door, Lord Ian said, “They’re ready for us.”

Clare appeared at her side. Lucy was there also to keep Clare company while the four of them performed, and she took Alethea’s clammy hand in a soothing touch. She did not look like an abigail tonight—she had a new gown in rich blue, a gift from Clare, and she looked as elegant as any woman who would be in the music room.

Alethea gathered her violin from the table and Lord Ravenhurst escorted her into the music room, which had been filled with people.
Fans fluttered, waving a rainbow of feather plumes, while the chandelier above and the wall sconces illuminated glittering jewels like stars fallen to earth. Alethea kept her head high, her shoulders back, but as her gaze swept the room, she could not see any of the faces.

She sat in her seat, but the sheet music on the stand swam in front of her eyes. Then Dommick was sitting beside her, and his leg gave her a not-so-gentle kick in the shin.

She blinked at him. He gave her a firm nod, and a look filled with all the strength and confidence she did not feel.

She positioned her violin.

Her contribution to the first chord was tentative. But her second note sounded stronger, and by the end of the first page, her heart was soaring with the music. She had forgotten the audience, forgotten the men playing alongside her, only knew the sounds echoing in her ears.

They had chosen to start with Dommick’s composition, which flew her on sweetly harmonious chords to the mountains of Italy, as she imagined them to be in her mind, to the solid castles built into the rock, rising above snow-white mist and the multicoloured hues of the turning leaves in autumn. The music sang of crashing waterfalls, the mist spraying up like tears on her face, the water rushing down and over rocks in a dancing swirl, to slow at last into a tranquil pool that spoke of the cold, still kiss of morning light, of leaves drifting down from dreaming trees, of whispered lovers’ vows.

The concerto ended with a delicate, winsome air of two violins chasing each other round and round until they met in a rapturous chord that died into the silent room.

The applause was thunderous. Even at other concerts Alethea had attended in the past year, she had never heard such a response. She came to herself and realized there were tears on her cheeks.

Dommick had an exultant smile. “I would give you my handkerchief, but I seem to have misplaced it.”

She laughed and dug his handkerchief from her reticule. She dabbed her cheeks and met the triumphant look from Lord Ian, the proud expression from Lord Ravenhurst.

As the applause quieted, Lord Ravenhurst flipped the page on his music stand. “Ready?”

They completed the next two pieces flawlessly. While Lord Dommick’s piece had been evocative, Lord Ravenhurst’s concerto was the most technically challenging, and Lord Ian’s quartet cleverly highlighted the unique tone of her violin in the measures where it soared above the other instruments or resonated with power in the melodic line.

They stood to more applause and exited the room back into the library. Alethea’s hands now began to shake as if she had a fever. She touched her forehead, but it was cool and damp.

Lord Ian grabbed Alethea’s hand and kissed it with a smack. “Quite amazing, my lady.”

Lord Ravenhurst gave her a regal bow, then a blinding smile. “Indeed.”

But it was Dommick’s gaze that made the room spin about her until he clasped her elbow. Then the world righted itself, and all she saw were the dark stars of his eyes. A breath or two, and she was herself again.

Clare and Lucy were beside her. “You were wonderful. You did not even look nervous,” Clare said.

“You could see us?”

“We watched through the open library door,” Lucy said. “The angle is perfect. If we stand behind the closed one, no one can see us.”

The door was closed now and murmuring had erupted in the music room as the guests mingled during the short intermission.
After intermission, Clare’s three pieces were not long, and then the Quartet would play the last two compositions.

Alethea took a deep breath as Lord Ravenhurst escorted her into the music room. She was surrounded by people, some she knew only as casual acquaintances, who were fervent in their praises. Cynically, she wondered which of them were speaking truthfully in their compliments.

But the most meaningful words were from Aunt Ebena, who waited for a break in the people around Alethea before she approached. “Your practice has been to good purpose,” she said severely.

“Yes, Aunt.”

She hesitated, her face impassive, then said in a low voice, “You were quite good, Alethea.”

Those words, more than the most fulsome praises, made satisfaction well up in her heart.

As intermission ended, Alethea and the performers returned to the library. She took Clare’s hand, which pressed hers almost painfully, before Lord Ian escorted her into the music room.

Lord Ian and Dommick had decided upon a slow, sweet tune to help calm Clare’s nerves. It worked, for Clare’s performance was without error, if a bit wooden. But then for her second solo, she added fire to a quick tempo and created thunder with crashing chords, ending in a gale of sound and power. And for her duet with Lord Ian, she was smiling, as Alethea could see as she watched from the library. The two of them created a playground where the pianoforte and violin played tag like laughing children.

Lucy stood beside Alethea, their arms about each other’s waists as they had done as children. Lucy whispered, “The song reminds me of our games on the downs.”

“It reminds me of happy times.”

“After our final performance, you must circulate around the room with Clare,” Dommick said near her ear.

“It will not put Clare in danger?”

“Leave your violin here, in the library. We shall be watching you and the violin at all times.”

Lord Ravenhurst added, “If you are not with the violin, you shall not be in harm’s way.”

“I shall stay in the library with Clare while you play your last two pieces with the gentlemen,” Lucy said. “Then you and Clare can go forth among your guests.”

Clare and Lord Ian finished with a flourish, and after they had bowed to the loud acclaim, she returned to the library with cheeks flushed and eyes brilliant.

Alethea was not as nervous during the last two songs. The Quartet was most famous for these particular concertos, and to be part of them made her feel as if she possessed a true, close-knit family. For those minutes, she pretended they were the brothers she had never had, ones who would support her rather than sell her to the highest bidder.

They ended to magnanimous applause, and after bowing, returned to the library.

Unaccountably, a chill swept through Alethea as if a draft had shot through an open window. She did not understand. She should be relieved, for it was over and she had not been drowned in censure.

Then suddenly she realized what was missing. “Where are Clare and Lucy?”

They all grew still.

Alethea ventured further into the room and checked in corners where she knew the two women would have no reason to be. Her ribcage began to ache. “Where are they?”

And then near the door that led into the hallway, she spotted an object on the floor. She picked it up.

It was a woman’s cloth slipper in a rich blue colour. It had been ripped from the ribbons attaching it to the wearer’s ankle.

“What is that?” Dommick’s voice was urgent.

She held it out to him, and her legs began to tremble. She nearly fell as she whispered, “This is Lucy’s slipper.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN