Simply Unforgettable (24 page)

He looked down at her. She was dressed in cream-colored muslin, with a plain straw bonnet. She looked quite unfashionable. Yet she looked neat and pretty and adorable. Bars of sunlight and shade danced over her as they walked.

“That is the spirit,” he said.

For the first time a smile played about her lips as she glanced up at him.

“It would serve you right,” she said, “if I talked for the next several hours without pausing for breath about every single detail I can remember of my childhood.”

“It would,” he agreed. “But the thing is, Frances, that I doubt I would be bored.”

She shook her head.

“It was a happy, secure childhood,” she said. “I never knew my mother and so did not miss her. My father was all in all to me, though I was surrounded with nurses and governesses and other servants. I had everything money could buy. But unlike many privileged children, I was not emotionally neglected. My father played with me, read to me, took me about with him, spent hours of every day with me. He encouraged me to read and learn and make music and do and be all I was capable of doing and being. He taught me to reach for the stars and settle for nothing less.”

He could have asked her why she had forgotten that particular lesson, but he did not want to argue with her again or cause her to turn silent again.

“You lived in London?” he asked her.

“Most of the time,” she said. “I loved it here. There was always somewhere new to go, some other church to admire or museum or art gallery to wander about or market to explore. There was so much history to absorb and so many people to observe. And there were always shops and libraries and tearooms and parks to be taken to. And the river to sail on.”

And yet now she shunned London. After Christmas he had been unable to lure her back here even though he had offered her an abundance of luxuries to replace those she seemed to have lost since childhood.

What a comedown it must have been for her to have to remove to Bath to teach—and to wear clothes that were either several years old, like the two evening gowns he had seen her wear, or else inexpensively made like today's muslin.

“But I did go into the country too,” she said. “My great-aunts sometimes had me to stay with them. They would have taken me to live when I arrived in England—Great-Aunt Martha was already widowed then. I suppose they thought that a gentleman could not raise a daughter alone, especially in a country that was foreign to him. But though I love them dearly and have always been grateful for the affection they have lavished on me, I am glad my father would not give me up.”

“He had ambitions for you as a singer?” he asked, noting again that she dipped her head sharply downward when an elderly couple he did not know strolled past them on the same deserted path as the one he had chosen.

“Dreams more than ambitions,” she said. “He would not even hire a singing master for me until I was thirteen, and he would not allow me to sing at any auditions or public concerts even when my singing master said I was ready. It was to wait until I was eighteen, my father said, when my voice would have matured, and even then only if it was what I really wanted for myself. He was very adamant in his belief that a child ought not to be exploited even if she was talented.”

“But did he not expect that you would be thinking of marriage at the age of eighteen?” he asked.

“He recognized it as a possibility,” she said. “And indeed when Lady Lyle agreed to sponsor my come-out when I was eighteen, he insisted that we postpone doing anything about my music until after the summer was over. By then he was dead of a sudden heart seizure. But he had dreamed for me because he knew I had dreams. He would not have pushed me into anything against my will. That was what my mother's father—my grandfather—had done to her when she was very young.”

“Your mother was a singer?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “In Italy. She was a very good one too, according to my father. He fell in love with her and married her there.”

“But did you allow your dream and your ambition to die with your father?” he asked her. “Did you make no attempt to sing at any auditions or to attract any sponsor?” Had not her aunts said that she had had a sponsor and even done some singing in public? “You went to live with Lady Lyle, did you not? Did she not offer you any help?”

“She did.” There was a change in her voice. It was tighter, more emotionless. “And I did sing a few times to small audiences. I did not like it. When I saw the advertisement for a teacher at Miss Martin's school in Bath, I applied for it and was offered the position. I have not regretted the decision I made to take it. I have been happy there—oh,
contented,
if you will. But there is nothing wrong with contentment, Lord Sinclair.”

Ah. For a while he had felt drawn into her life. She had seemed to enjoy telling her story—there had been a glow in her face, a smile in her eyes, animation in her voice. But she had shut him out again. A lovely young lady who had been brought out under the sponsorship of a baroness must surely have had marriage prospects even if, as Lucius guessed, her father had left her without a penny. But even if there had been no particular beau in her life, there had been the dazzling prospect of an illustrious career as a singer stretching before her. It had been her father's dream and her own for most of her life. Lady Lyle had been prepared to help her.

Yet she had given it all up at the advanced age of twenty?

Something was missing in her story. Something quite momentous, Lucius suspected. Something that was quite possibly the key to the mystery that was Frances Allard.

But she was not going to tell him.

And why should she? She had rejected him at every turn. She owed him nothing.

But someone should have done more for her at the time.

It was not too late, though, for her dream to be reborn.

He taught me to reach for the stars and settle for nothing less.

Tomorrow evening she would touch those stars and even grasp them.

He may have to say good-bye to her again and abide by it this time, but first he would, by Jove, restore her dream to her.

She looked up at him with a half-smile.

“I did not suspect, Lord Sinclair,” she said, “that you could be such a good listener.”

“That is because you know me as little as I know you, Frances,” he said. “There are many things about me that you do not suspect.”

“I do not think I dare ask for examples,” she said, and actually laughed.

“Because you are afraid that you might grow to like me after all?” he asked her.

She sobered instantly. “I do not dislike you,” she said.

“Do you not?” he said. “But you will not marry me?”

“There is no connection between the two,” she said. “We cannot marry everyone we like. We would live in a very bigamous society if we did.”

“But if two people like each other enough,” he said, “a marriage between them stands a better chance of succeeding than if they do not like each other at all. Would you not agree?”

“That,” she said, “is rather an absurd question. Will Miss Hunt not have you? Does she not like you?”

“I might have guessed that you would bring the conversation around to Portia,” he said, taking her by the elbow and leading her out through the gate at the end of the path they had taken and back out onto the street. He took the most direct route to Portman Street from there. “I take it very unkindly in you, Frances, to have refused me. I have to marry
someone
this year after all, as Portia herself has pointed out to me, and if you will not have me then I suppose I will have to have her. And before you pour scorn upon my head and sympathies upon hers, let me add that she told me with the same breath that she also must marry someone and he might as well be me. There is no sentiment involved on either side, you see, and very little liking either. There is no danger that you would be breaking another woman's heart if you made off with me yourself. Would you care to put the matter to the test?”

“No,” she said, “I would not.”

“Would you care to explain exactly why, then?” he asked.

It was an ill-mannered question to ask and invited a sharp setdown that could only wound him. However, the question was out and he awaited her answer. It was brief.

“No,” she said, “I would not.”

“It is not that you do not care for me?” he asked her, taking her elbow again and hurrying her across a road before tossing a coin into the outstretched hand of a crossing sweeper who had cleared a path for them.

“I do not wish to answer any more questions,” she said. But a few moments later she spoke again. “Lucius?”

He looked down into her upturned face, jolted as he always was on the rare occasion when she used his given name.

“Yes?” he said.

“I will come to dinner at Marshall House tomorrow evening,” she said, “and I will sing in the music room afterward for your grandfather and my great-aunts. I will even take pleasure in doing so. But that must be the end. I shall be returning to Bath within the next two or three days. It
must
be the end, Lucius. You may not believe that you will be better off marrying Miss Hunt, but I assure you that you will. She is of your world, and she has the approval of your family and hers, I daresay. Affection and even love will grow between you if you try hard. You must forget about your obsession with me. That is all it is, you know. You do not
really
love me.”

He was furiously angry even before she had finished speaking. Had they still been in the park he would have lashed out at her. But the street on which they walked, though not busy, was in constant use. And who knew how many people lurked within sight or hearing behind the windows of the houses lining the street?

“Thank you,” he said curtly. “It is kind of you, Frances, to point out to me whom I love and whom I will grow to love. It is reassuring to know that what I feel for you is only an obsession. Knowing that, I shall recover in a trice. Ha! It is already done. There is your great-aunts' house just up ahead, ma'am. It has been my pleasure to escort you home even if the course we took
was
rather too circuitous for your taste. I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening. Good day to you.”

“Lucius—” She was looking up at him with stricken eyes.

“On the whole, ma'am,” he said, “I believe I prefer
Lord Sinclair
. The other suggests an intimacy between us that I no longer cultivate.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh.”

He rapped on the door knocker for her and executed an elegant bow when it opened almost immediately. He did not watch her step inside. He turned and strode down the street.

He felt thunderous.

He felt murderous.

You must forget about your obsession with me.

He ground his teeth.

That is all it is, you know. You do not really love me.

Would to God she were right!

But sometimes, he thought, love could feel remarkably like hatred.

This was one of those times.

20

Mrs. Melford and Miss Driscoll arrived promptly at Marshall
House the following evening with their great-niece and were received graciously in the drawing room by Viscountess Sinclair, to whom the Earl of Edgecombe presented them.

“I have, I believe, met you before, Mrs. Melford,” she said, “and you too, Miss Driscoll. It was many years ago, though, when my husband was still alive. And you are Miss Allard.” She smiled at Frances. “We have heard much about you and are greatly looking forward to hearing you sing after dinner. And I must thank you for being so kind to Amy when she was in Bath. It irks her to be the youngest in the family and to have to wait another year for her come-out.”

“She entertained me most graciously when I took tea at Brock Street, ma'am,” Frances assured her. “I was made to feel quite at home.”

There were nine people gathered in the drawing room, she had noted—rather more than she had expected. That made twelve altogether. But that fact surely could not account for the nervousness she felt. Or perhaps
nervousness
was the wrong word. She had not slept well last night or been able to settle to any activity today. The anger with which Viscount Sinclair had parted from her after escorting her home had bothered her ever since. For the first time she had been forced to consider the possibility that he really did have deep feelings for her, that his pursuit of her was not motivated merely by lust or thwarted will or impulse.

She could not escape the conclusion that he had been
hurt
yesterday.

And she was sorry then that she had not simply told him the whole story of her life. It could not matter now, could it? And it would have finally deterred him, shown him that a marriage between them was quite impossible.

The viscountess presented everyone to the new arrivals. The pretty, fair-haired young lady with the dimple in her left cheek when she smiled was Miss Emily Marshall. The earnest young gentleman with spectacles pinching the bridge of his nose was Sir Henry Cobham, Caroline Marshall's betrothed. The other couple were Lord and Lady Tait. From her resemblance to Emily Marshall, Frances guessed that Lady Tait was an older sister.

The evening proceeded well enough after the introductions had been made. Frances avoided Viscount Sinclair, a task made somewhat easier by the fact that he seemed equally intent upon avoiding her. She sat between Mr. Cobham and Lord Tait at dinner and found them both easy conversationalists. Her great-aunts were both in good spirits and clearly enjoying themselves.

All that remained to do, Frances thought as the meal drew to an end and she watched for Lady Sinclair to give the signal for the ladies to withdraw and leave the gentlemen to their port—all that remained to do was sing for the pleasure of the earl and her aunts, and then they could take their leave and the whole ordeal would be over.

Tomorrow, or more probably the next day, she would return to Bath. And this time she was going to immerse herself fully in her life there and her work as a teacher. She was going to forget about Mr. Blake—it was unfair to try to force herself into welcoming his interest when she felt no regard for him beyond a mild gratitude. She was going to forget about beaux altogether.

Most of all, she was going to forget about Lucius Marshall, Viscount Sinclair.

She thought about the music she would sing and tried to get her mind prepared. Her only wish was that she could sing in the drawing room rather than in the music room. The latter seemed just a little too magnificently formal for a relatively small family entertainment. However, she supposed it would look different with the panels shutting it off from the vaster ballroom.

“Miss Allard,” the earl said suddenly, addressing her along the length of the table, “it has seemed in the last few days that it would be just too selfish to keep your performance all to ourselves. And so Lucius has invited some friends to join us after dinner in order to listen to you. We considered that the surprise would please you. I hope it does.”

Some friends.

Frances froze.

She did indeed mind. She minded very much.

This was London.

“How splendid!” Great-Aunt Martha exclaimed. “And how very thoughtful of you both.” She beamed first at the earl and then at the viscount. “
Of course
Frances does not mind. Do you, my love?”

How many were
some
? Frances wondered. And who
were
they?

But her aunts, she could see, were fair to bursting with pride and happiness. And the earl could not have looked more pleased with himself if he had been holding out to her the gift of a diamond necklace on a velvet cushion.

“I will be honored, my lord,” she said.

Perhaps
some
meant only two or three. Perhaps they would all be strangers. Surely they would, in fact. She had not been here in three years.

“I knew you would be pleased,” the earl said, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. “But the honor is all ours, I assure you, ma'am. Now. You will not wish to be fussed with having to be sociable to other guests for the next little while. You will wish to relax quietly before you sing. Lucius will escort you to the drawing room while the rest of us proceed to the music room. Lucius?”

“Certainly, sir.” Viscount Sinclair got up from his place farther along the table and extended an arm as Frances rose from her place. “We will join you in half an hour?”

Frances set a hand on his sleeve.

The dining room and drawing room were not on the same floor as the music room. No particularly noticeable sounds were coming up from below. Nevertheless, Frances had an uneasy feeling that there
would
be sounds—of people—if only they were to descend the staircase.

“How many people are some friends?” she asked.

“Already, Frances,” he said, opening the door into the drawing room and ushering her inside, “you are sounding annoyed.”

“Already?” she said, turning to face him. “I will be even more so, then, when I know the answer?”

“There are people with a quarter of your talent who would kill for the sort of opportunity with which you are to be presented tonight,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

“Then give the opportunity to
them,
” she said, “and save them from having to commit murder.”

He cocked one eyebrow.

“And
what
sort of opportunity?” she demanded to know.

“I daresay you have not heard of Lord Heath,” he said.

She stared mutely. Everyone had heard of Lord Heath—everyone who was musically inclined, anyway.

“He is a renowned connoisseur and patron of music,” he explained. “He can promote your career as no one else in London can, Frances.”

That was what her father had once said. He had been planning to bring her to the baron's attention, though he had said that it would be very difficult to do since everyone with even a modicum of musical talent was forever pestering him to listen.

“I
have
a career,” she said, “and you have taken me away from it in the middle of a term under largely false pretenses. I will be returning to it within the next day or two. I need no patron. I have an
employer
—Miss Martin.”

“Sit down and relax,” he told her. “If you work yourself into a fit of the vapors, you will not be able to sing your best.”

“How many, Lord Sinclair?” she asked him.

“I am not sure I can give you an exact number,” he said, “without going along to the music room and doing a head count.”

“How
many
?
Approximately
how many?”

He shrugged. “You should be glad,” he said. “This is the chance for which you have waited too long. You admitted to me yesterday that this was both your dream and your father's.”

“Leave my father out of this!” She suddenly felt cold about the heart and sat down abruptly on the closest chair. She had had a ghastly thought. “The panels that divide the music room from the ballroom had been removed yesterday. Your sister drew your attention to the fact and reminded you to have them put back in place. Has it been done?”

“Actually no,” he said. He strolled to the fireplace and stood with his back to it, watching her.

“
Why
not?”

Dear God, the combined rooms would make a sizable concert hall. Surely that was not—

“You are going to be magnificent tonight, Frances,” he told her. His hands were clasped at his back. He was looking at her with an intensity that might have disconcerted her under other circumstances.

Yes, that
was
the intention, she realized. The panels between the two rooms had been removed deliberately because the audience was expected to be too large for the music room alone. And they had done it—
he
had done it—without consulting her.

Just as he had brought her to London by trickery, without consulting her wishes.

“I ought to walk out of here right now,” she said. “I
would
if doing so would not make my great-aunts appear foolish.”

“And if it would not disappoint my grandfather,” he said.

“Yes.”

She glared at him. He stared back, tight-jawed.

“Frances,” he said after a few moments of hostile silence, “what are you afraid of? Failing? It will not happen, I promise you.”

“You are nothing but a meddler,” she said bitterly. “An arrogant meddler, who is forever convinced that only he knows what I ought to be doing with my life. You
knew
I did not wish to return to London, yet you maneuvered matters so that I would come anyway. You
knew
I did not want to sing before any large audience, especially here, but you have gathered a large audience anyway and made it next to impossible for me to refuse to sing before it. You
knew
I did not wish to see you again, but you totally ignored my wishes. I think you really do imagine that you care for me, but you are wrong. You do not manipulate someone you care for or go out of your way to make her miserable. You care for no one but yourself. You are a tyrant, Lord Sinclair—the worst type of bully.”

He had, she thought, turned pale while she spoke. Certainly his expression had grown hard and shuttered. He turned abruptly to stare down into the unlit coals in the fireplace.

“And you, Frances,” he said after long moments of uncomfortable silence, “do not know the meaning of the word
trust
. I have no quarrel with your choosing to teach rather than sing. Why should I? You are free to choose your own course in life. But I do need to understand your reason for doing so—and there
is
a reason beyond simple preference or even simple poverty. I have no real quarrel with your refusal to come to London with me after Christmas or to marry me when I asked you a little over a month ago. I do
not
consider myself God's gift to women, and I do not expect every woman to fall head over ears in love with me—even those who have bedded with me. But I need to understand the reason for your refusal, since I do not believe it is aversion or even indifference. You will not trust me with your reasons. You will not trust me with
yourself
.”

She was too angry to feel renewed regret that she had not been more open with him yesterday.

“I do not
have
to,” she cried. “I am under no compulsion to confide in you or any man. Why should I? You are nothing to me. And I am certain of only one thing in this life, and that is that I may trust myself. I will not let
myself
down.”

He turned to look at her, all signs of humor and mockery wiped from his face.

“Are you sure of that?” he asked her. “Are you sure you have not already done so?”

She understood suddenly—she supposed she had known it all along—why she had been able to contemplate a future with Mr. Blake but not with Lucius Marshall. Beyond a full confession about her past, including what had happened just after Christmas, she would not have had to share anything of her deepest self with Mr. Blake—not ever. Some instinct told her that. Courtesy and gentility and certain shared interests and friends would have taken them through life together quite contentedly. With Lucius she would have to share her very soul—and he his. Nothing else would ever do between them—she had been wrong yesterday about open books. As a very young woman she might have risked opening up to him—indeed she would have welcomed such a prospect. Young people tended to dream of the sort of love and passion that would burn hot and bright throughout a lifetime and even beyond the grave.

Although she was only twenty-three she shrank from the prospect of such a relationship now—and yearned toward it too.

She remembered their night together with sudden, unbidden clarity and closed her eyes.

“I will come to escort you to the music room in twenty minutes' time,” he said. “It is a concert I have arranged for you, Frances. There will be other performers, but you will be last, as is only fitting. No one would wish to have to follow you. I will leave you alone to compose yourself.”