Mary’s mouth dropped open as she followed her aunt out into the hallway. Fifteen gentlemen for her to consider? The fact that they might not be willing to consider her was apparently not a possibility worth mentioning. It was however a fact that was further compounded by the unexpected presence of Lord Rotridge in the hallway. He was standing a short distance away, his eyes on the parlor door as Mary and her aunt made their exit. Bowing his head toward Mary the instant their eyes met, he remained where he was while she and her aunt began heading in the opposite direction.
“Come along,” Lady Foxworth said as she drifted toward the French doors leading out onto the terrace, her tone so light and airy that Mary doubted she’d noticed Rotridge’s presence. “If you hurry, you ought to have enough time to take a walk with Lord Toncham before luncheon.”
Knowing better than to argue, Mary bit back the immediate comment that formed on her tongue about Toncham rhyming with luncheon. She tried not to smile and surrendered herself to her aunt’s incessant attempts at matchmaking instead, convinced that none of the gentlemen Lady Duncaster had suggested could possibly be worse than the man who was currently staring at her back as she hurried away, following her aunt.
“There is something different about you,” Spencer said as he studied Richard. Leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out before him, Spencer took a sip of his drink before adding, “You look suspiciously happy.”
Richard raised an eyebrow. “Suspiciously happy? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He knew the answer of course. The fact that he’d actually been smiling for the first time in five years, in spite of his best efforts not to, had apparently not gone unnoticed.
Spencer tilted his head to one side in a ponderous way that caused Richard to square his shoulders. “It means that I am extremely curious to know the reason behind that ridiculous grin that you have begun wearing.”
“I am not wearing a ridiculous grin,” Richard protested.
“You were, just a moment ago. Now you look as though you might like to wring my neck.” Spencer frowned. “What is going on?”
Rising from his chair, Richard crossed to the sideboard and poured himself another drink—his third, that evening. “Nothing,” he said with a shrug. Spencer did not respond to that, and when Richard turned with the intention of resuming his seat, he found him staring at him. His brother was clearly not convinced. Expelling a deep breath, Richard made a noncommittal gesture with his hand. “Very well. If you must know, I have been re-reading The Dark Secret of Mistletoe Forest.” He would not, could not, mention Mary.
Spencer gave him an odd look. “Really?”
Richard nodded, took a swig of his brandy and said, with the most serious expression he could muster, “Really.” And then, “You should give it a try yourself. It is terribly amusing.”
Spencer looked increasingly uncertain. “I think I will take your word for that.”
Richard shrugged, took another sip of his drink and asked, “Have you and Sarah discussed a wedding trip yet? I suspect that the two of you must be eager to get away and spend some time alone with each other.” And just like that, the conversation changed course, directed away from Richard and his suspicious happiness.
When Spencer eventually left Richard’s room half an hour later, Richard leaned back against the door and breathed a sigh of relief. Jesus, he had to be more careful about his facial expressions.
But it was difficult not to smile, considering how wonderful he felt. Mary was a godsend, her positive nature brightening his nights, chipping away at the melancholy and the constant anger with which he’d grown accustomed. And her voice! She’d sung for him these past few nights, and as she did, it was almost as if he could feel her reaching out and touching his heart with her very soul. That part of him beat loudly now at the thought of seeing her again soon. He glanced toward the clock on the mantel. Just another hour and they would be alone again, able to share each other’s company while hope blossomed around them.
Passing the palm of his hand across his face, he considered what she’d told him a few days earlier: take courage and trust that all will be well. It was time, he realized as he pushed himself away from the door and went to retrieve his cloak and mask. Tonight, he would show her his face and pray that she would indeed accept him for who he was. Sarah had been surprisingly unappalled when Spencer had introduced her to him, but then again, she’d had no romantic aspirations as far as he was concerned, whereas Mary . . . He feared that she was about to be terribly disappointed—that she imagined him to be something more than what he was, and that she’d try to hide her shock as politely as possible while contemplating the number of ways in which she might escape his company.
Fastening his cape at the nape of his neck, he slid the mask into place and pulled the hood over his head. He then gave the wall panel next to his bed a gentle push and slipped out into the passageway beyond.
It was later than Mary had hoped by the time she was able to sneak out of her bedchamber and make her way to the room where Richard would be waiting. After dinner, her aunt had insisted that she join her for a game of cards—an invitation that had been difficult to turn down without raising any questions. Especially since Mary had claimed to be feeling perfectly fine earlier in the day.
The soles of her shoes tapped lightly against the stone steps as she made her way down through the hidden stairwell at the far right corner of the house, her stomach already forming a complicated knot at the thought of the man who awaited her arrival. He would still be there, wouldn’t he? It was an hour later than they’d discussed, so she couldn’t be certain. She could only hope.
With rising excitement, she hurried forward, the glow of her lantern preceding her arrival.
A deep rumble greeted her. “I was beginning to worry that you might not come.”
Mary breathed an instant sigh of relief upon seeing Richard, his shoulder resting casually against the wall as he leaned up against it. He’d waited.
“I apologize for being so late,” she said, her eyes following his every movement as he straightened himself and came toward her. “My aunt—”
“You need not explain.” Reaching for her hand, he turned it over and pressed the inside of her bare wrist to his lips. “I am sure that you have a good reason for not arriving sooner.” He released her hand, producing an inexplicable flutter in her chest. “It cannot be easy for you to get away unnoticed. At least not until your aunt has retired for the evening.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
“Think nothing of it.” He dropped his gaze. “How is your ankle?”
“Much better. It no longer hurts me to walk, so you won’t have to carry me anymore.” Her words were softly strung with silken strands of regret.
Raising his gaze, the shimmer in his eyes plucked at her skin, the pull between them so achingly hard to resist. “A pity.” She held her breath, her heart like a caged bird inside her chest longing to be set free. The moment stretched until he turned away, picking up a case that Mary hadn’t noticed before. “I have brought my violin with me. I thought perhaps you might like some accompaniment.”
“Your violin?” She looked down at the case he was holding, then returned her eyes to his. “I was not aware that you played. You never mentioned it.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I am not the sort of man who believes in pressing his achievements upon others. On the contrary, I generally disapprove of such tactics.” She could only stare at him, puzzled by the fact that he’d said absolutely nothing before. Not one word even as he’d encouraged her to sing. “But I am letting you know now,” he added.
“By bringing your violin with you,” she murmured.
He gave a curt nod. “Precisely.”
In a peculiar way, she understood. She wasn’t one to tell others about her singing either. An easy moment of silence passed between them, and then she smiled and asked, “Are you any good?”
“I think I will let you be the judge of that.”
>
His voice held a note of humor, which led her to believe that he was smiling too. A pleasant thought, that—the idea that she was able to bring some joy to a man who’d clearly lived without it for a very long time.
He offered her his arm, which she accepted, her hand slipping comfortably into place, just as it had done the evening before, and the evening before that. And as was always the case whenever they touched, Mary’s stomach trembled a little while heat rose to her cheeks, her heart rate accelerating just enough to leave her feeling breathless. Of course, it didn’t help that she’d decided to tell him the truth about herself, and by the time they reached the cave, her nerves had become a tangled mess.
“What is the matter?” he asked when they reached the place that amplified her voice the best. “You seem distressed.”
She pulled her arm away from his, simply because she could not seem to think very clearly when he was that close. “Do you . . .”
“Do I what?” His voice was strong but gentle.
Mary focused on her breaths. Slow and steady. “Do you remember when I told you that you are not the only one with secrets? That I have mine as well?”
“Of course.” Some of the softness left his voice, cooling it a fraction. “You said you would tell me what it was as soon as I was ready to show you my face—one secret in return for another.”
“As well as a sign of complete devotion and trust.” Stepping toward the ledge, she glanced down toward the river below, the water barely visible, like a flat piece of glass in the dim tones of gray that surrounded it. “You might not be ready to share your secret with me. Indeed, it is possible that you never will be. But I am ready to share mine with you.”
“Mary, you—”
“It is important,” she said, cutting him off as she turned back to face him. “Because until the truth is out in the open, until we are each given the choice that we deserve, then we cannot possibly try to move forward.”
“I know.”
He did not approach her, but remained exactly where he was, for which she was grateful, because if he held her in his arms, she’d likely lose her resolve. “I do not want what we have to change, Richard, and I am terrified that it will. But you deserve to know the truth about me, for the one simple reason that I do not want you to fall in love with a lie.” The words were out in a rush before she could think about what she was saying. A gasp followed, and then, “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply anything. I just—”
“You should not apologize. Not when you are right.” He watched her for a long time before setting down the case he’d brought with him and snapping it open. Wordlessly, he pulled out his violin, set it against his chin, and started to play.
In that moment, it was as if Mary’s world stopped spinning before gradually reversing its rotation. “You play beautifully,” she said as soon as the song drew to an end. “But I did not recognize it.”
“Perhaps because you have never heard it before?” When she didn’t reply, he quietly confessed, “I wrote it myself. A couple of years ago.”
“You are a composer?” She could scarcely believe it.
He chuckled slightly. “I would hardly call myself that.”
“Why on earth not?” She shook her head, dismissing the question and asking instead, “How many pieces have you written? Is this the only one?”
“No,” he admitted. “There are five in total.”
“Well.” She could not think of what to say, she was so surprised, except, “I should like to hear them all!”
“Some other time perhaps.” He started to play again, but this time Mary knew the melody instantly. It was by Rossini, written for one of his more recent operas, La Cenerentola. It wasn’t one that Mary had had the opportunity to sing many times, so the words came a little hesitantly at first, though with increasing strength and certainty as she gained confidence.
She realized something as she sang, listening to the sound of her voice flowing alongside the tune of the violin, like two souls engaging in an elaborate dance. The music was closing the space between them, creating unity and understanding on a level that she’d never thought possible. It was like magic, in a way.
“Perfect,” Richard whispered, mirroring her thoughts as the final notes drifted off into the darkness and the song came to a close. He sounded just as awestruck as she felt—as if they’d somehow been joined together on a higher plane of existence. Carefully, he returned his instrument to its proper resting place before walking slowly toward her, his arms extending until they found their way around her in a tight embrace.
They stood like that for what seemed like forever, but it was the most wonderful version of forever that Mary could possibly imagine. “I need you to know,” she began, her voice breaking the silence. He would understand. She was certain of that now. More certain than she’d ever been about anything else before. “I am not just Mary Bourneville. I am also Lucia Cavalani.”
Inhaling sharply, he leaned back so he could look down at her, his eyes narrowing as he did so. “The most famous opera singer in England? That cannot be.” But in spite of what he said, his words held an edge of doubt, as though he wanted to believe it, but couldn’t quite figure out how it might be possible.
“Why not?”
He shook his head, his arms still holding her as he seemed to puzzle this over. “How?”
Encouraged by the fact that he hadn’t let her go and that he wasn’t sounding horrified, but rather curious, she said, “I developed a fondness for opera, for the passion that it embodies, after my parents invited me to watch The Marriage of Figaro for the first time. At first, I did not allow my voice full range because I didn’t want to be found out, but then one summer, while visiting our family home in Leicestershire, I discovered a private spot in the woods where I could practice properly.”
“That does not explain how you got onto the stage—an impressive feat, by the way, considering your station.”
She drew away from him then, requiring freedom of movement as she told him of her greatest secret—the one that could ruin not only her own reputation, but her entire family’s as well, by association. “When Mama and Papa left for India and I was sent to live with my aunt, Lady Foxworth, she made every effort to introduce me into polite Society. I was to make a splendid match, after all. But while her concern was in pairing me off with handsome dance partners, I took more interest in an older gentleman who happened to attend a dinner party hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Pinehurst, to which my aunt and I were also invited.”
“Let me guess. The gentleman in question was somehow associated with the King’s Theatre?”
She nodded. “His name is Mr. Taylor.”
“The manager himself? What a fortunate encounter that must have been for you.” He tilted his head slightly. “I assume that you requested an audition?”
“Not exactly. At first I just told him that I was interested in taking a tour of the theatre and asked if such a thing might be possible.” Richard said nothing in response to that but held silent instead, allowing her the time she needed to share everything with him. “A meeting was arranged and my maid, Amy, accompanied me there.”
“And while you were there you asked if he would be interested in acquiring a new talent?”
“At the time, I did not consider my voice to be very spectacular.” Mary shrugged one shoulder. “What I initially hoped, was that I might be able to receive some training.”
He nodded as if he understood. “And then what happened?”
Hesitating only briefly, Mary said, “Mr. Taylor was very reluctant at first and warned me of the risk to my reputation, but then he heard me sing and . . . It did not take long for him to find a solution to the problem by suggesting that I wear a disguise.”
“It must have been a very convincing one indeed since no one has ever suspected a thing.” His voice now conveyed a strange mixture of admiration and concern. “You . . .”
He stiffened while Mary sucked in a breath, alerted by t
he crunching of pebbles, a scraping sound, and then the thud of retreating footsteps. Spinning away from her, Richard snatched up his lantern and rushed toward the entrance of the cave. “Who goes there?” Mary heard him call out into the darkness.
“Do you think whoever it was might have overheard our conversation?” she asked, coming up behind him.
“I am certain of it.” Without another word, he started back toward Thorncliff at a brisk pace while Mary hurried after him, her skirts tangling around her legs now that the wind had picked up.
“So then my secret . . .” Panic began to rise inside her, tightening her chest at the thought of how reckless she’d just been. “I should have been more careful.”
“And you were doing precisely that by confiding in me in a secret location,” he shot back angrily. “You did not know that we were followed anymore than I did.”
Biting her lip as she reached the top of the slope and pushing past the bushes before stepping out onto the damp lawn, she felt her heart pound painfully against her chest. “I am very much concerned that it might have been Rotridge.”
“It is a possibility,” Richard agreed, “but whoever it was, he or she is gone now, so we cannot be certain.”
They continued on in silence until they reached the door to the antechamber and he ushered her inside. “What should I do?” She really had no idea. If Rotridge was aware of her secret identity, then there was every possibility that he might try to use it against her. In fact, she was confident that he would.
“For now, there is no proof that you are also Lucia,” he whispered. “The best thing you can do is to refrain from returning to the cave and from practicing your singing.”
Raising one hand, she started to reach for him, but changed her mind and hugged herself instead, too afraid of how he might answer her next question. “What about us?”
“What you have just told me . . .” She looked away, but he caught her by the chin and angled her face toward his own. “It changes nothing, Mary. If anything, I admire your courage.” Turning his hand, his palm met her cheek, cradling it softly while his thumb caressed her skin. “Denying the world with the opportunity to hear your voice, would have been a tragic shame.”
His Scandalous Kiss: Secrets at Thorncliff Manor: 6 Page 14