A Song Unheard

by Roseanna M. White

  Daisy was moving toward the door, her smile clear and bright and young. “You gentlemen can escort Miss Blaker and Miss Forsythe—my sister and I shall lead the way.”

  Escort them? Willa took a step back, even as De Wilde crooked his elbow her way. She may have made a show of insisting that Gwen have that honor, but the sisters were already moving toward the door.

  And pain was pulsing again in De Wilde’s eyes. He ought to have offered his left arm instead—but she was standing on his right side. It would have, she supposed, been odd.

  Blast. She couldn’t well refuse without looking rude. But oh, she wanted to refuse. Her smile no doubt looked as strained as his gaze when she reached out to rest her gloved fingers against his arm.

  The fabric of his jacket was smooth and fine. The arm beneath it was firm—as she expected of someone who spent most of his days with his bow raised. The subtle scent of sandalwood drifted to her nose.

  And something more than the usual uneasiness skittered its way up her spine at the contact.

  “Shall we, then?”

  Rather than look up at him again, she kept her gaze on the others as he started them toward the door. His accent was different from Cor’s and the other refugees’ she’d met in London. French rather than Flemish. But faint, bespeaking a long education in English, she would guess.

  “Are you from Wales as well, Miss Forsythe?” His accent may be slight, but her name still sounded strange coming from his lips. Or maybe it was just that so few people called her Miss Forsythe.

  She shook her head but kept her gaze on Daisy’s back. “No. London. I’ve lived there all my life, other than when I went to Highfield School in Hendon—just on the outskirts of Town. That’s where I met Daisy and Gwen.” They were older than she—which meant, if anyone wondered, she’d have to claim to be nearer their ages than her own. She could perhaps get away with twenty-eight and still have gone to school with them. But certainly not her twenty-three.

  But De Wilde didn’t question her age. He hummed and led her through the door. “I have always liked London. I performed there just a few months ago.”

  “I know. I was there.” On a catwalk above the symphony hall, where she’d listened for a full hour to him play—as much time as the coin she’d slipped a stage boy had bought her. She’d had to climb down at the intermission and steal back out into the cold winter air.

  But it had been worth every dizzying moment of being perched up so high. Not that she meant to tell him that.

  From the corner of her eye she saw his head turn toward her. And she felt his smile. “Were you? You should have arranged for an introduction. I would have enjoyed meeting you.”

  An incredulous snort slipped out. “I hardly think so, Mr. De Wilde.”

  His step slowed, which somehow pulled her gaze up to his. She found his brows knotted into a question. “And why would you say such a thing?”

  This was a mercy of the false story Mr. V had created for her—he must have known she would prefer it to pretending to be actually rich. “There were two dukes in the audience that night.” Those whispers had reached even the catwalks. “If anyone were to get an introduction, it would be them and their wives. Not a girl of middling means who only aspired to Highfield because of a scholarship.”

  He chuckled. She heard the charm in it, felt it weave itself around her. Felt an echoing anger rumble through her. No one had a right to be so handsome and talented and charming. It set her teeth on edge.

  He leaned closer. “I did indeed meet the Dukes of Stafford and Nottingham that night—along with their lovely wives. But I always have time to meet intriguing young ladies as well.”

  A laugh slipped from her lips—the kind that was too short to speak of genuine amusement. She couldn’t help it—it was so obviously wrong. “Except, sir, that I am not intriguing.”

  “Are you not?” They’d reached the door to the dining room, awash with bright electric lights. “I believe I get to be the judge of that, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Think what you will.” Especially since she would no doubt fade from his mind altogether once they were out of each other’s company. That was the way of men like him—a way that transcended class and station. Handsome, charming men were all the same. Flirting with a woman long enough to get what he wanted from her, then flitting off to the next. Leaving the poor girl in a state of panic that could last for a year. Years. And never once bothering to come back and see if she had survived his leaving.

  Sometimes she could still see her mother, searching hopefully through every male face. Never seeing the one she wanted. Murmuring, ever murmuring, about how handsome he was. How he’d loved her. How he’d called her pretty and told her she was the best girl in the world. His girl.

  Willa could appreciate handsome faces as much as the next woman—when they were safely flattened onto a poster to tack upon her wall. But in flesh and blood they were suited to be marks, nothing more.

  She let go of his arm and didn’t bother looking at him as she made her way to the same chair she’d sat upon last night. She would study him, yes. She would learn where he took his rooms, when he was gone from them. She would take whatever it was Mr. V wanted. She would play his violin later.

  And, yes, she would enjoy besting him—because he quite obviously deserved it, thinking as he did that he had only to smile at a woman to have his way with her.

  Well, he had never met Willa Forsythe. He had no idea what he was in for.

  Five

  He had no idea what to expect—and when handing his most precious possession to a veritable stranger, that caused Lukas more than a bit of concern. He lifted his violin from its case with his left hand, tilting it, as he always did, into the light. To see how the illumination in this room, this house, played on the gloss, drew out the impossibly tight wood grain.

  It had taken him years to earn enough to buy this. Years. It had been his goal since he was a boy deciding that he rather liked this violin thing after all. To own a Strad. To know every time he touched bow to string that he held a masterpiece in his hands.

  To know that if there were a fault in the music, it was his fault, his shortcoming, not his instrument’s.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful.” Gwen Davies perched near him on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward to study the violin. “Look at the scrolling, Daisy.”

  Daisy scooted closer to her sister so she could lean over to see. Their hair was within a shade of each other’s, that color of brown caught halfway to blond but not.

  Lukas obligingly held out the violin to them. “You may take it, Miss Davies. I trust you.” She knew the value of a Stradivarius.

  Gwen took it as carefully as one would a kitten, stroking a gloved hand along its curves. “Gorgeous. I never fail to be awed by Stradivari’s workmanship.”

  Her sister made some reply, but Lukas paid it no attention. He glanced instead toward Miss Forsythe.

  She was an enigma. Scarcely looking his way during dinner, playing the part of smiling guest wherever the conversation went. But there was more to her, of that he had no doubt. The way she’d been studying that building yesterday . . .

  The way she studied the violin now, from her stance behind the sisters’ sofa. She didn’t reach for it. Her posture said she was perfectly at ease—nearly bored even.

  But her eyes were hungry.

  His father and his sister could spend days studying a mathematical enigma—Lukas had never shared that particular love of theirs. But a puzzle of a woman he could study for an eternity.

  He drew his bow from its bed and held it out to her. “Here you are, Miss Forsythe. Whenever you are ready.”

  A smile danced over her lips, vanishing again even as she reached for the bow. Yet even then, her gaze was set on seeing more than what he held out. She stared at his left shoulder, the one he’d used, and then at his right, which was yet again on fire. He’d had no choice but to use that arm during dinner—though his knife had never weighed so heavy.

 
But he’d been so careful about guarding his expression. Even Jules hadn’t whispered a question about how he felt as they made their way back into the parlor—he’d only said, “Are you certain you want to let her play your Strad?”

  Certain? No. But he was curious. Not so much about how she played, but about how she might look when she did so. What light might be in her eyes. Whether she would focus upon the instrument with that single-minded intensity, or whether she’d approach it as she had her meal—without any care, it seemed, as to whether she ate a carrot or meat. Whether she played a grace note or a whole.

  Her gaze swept from his thundering shoulder to his face, as if to say, I know your secrets. And I’ll use them against you whenever I please.

  Intriguing indeed.

  She ran her fingers over the bow, studying it, weighing it. Leaned over the sofa back to see whatever Gwen was pointing out on his violin now. Tugged off her gloves. She wouldn’t be able to play with them on, he knew. And it wasn’t an action she performed with any visible intent to make a show of it. No meeting his gaze as she did so, suggestion in her own. No careful, sensual tug of satin from fingers. She did it absently, as his mother might. It shouldn’t have been so interesting to watch.

  Her fingers were long and slender, her palms lean. Good hands for the violin, to be sure. And her gaze went even hungrier.

  Perhaps she would have tea with him if he invited her to step out. Or accompany him to the opera, or to a play, if this miniscule Welsh city had such things to offer. A moving-picture house was probably out of the question this far to the west.

  Gwen turned on her cushion, smiling, and held up the violin. “Here you are, Willa. Play something lively for us.”

  Miss Forsythe took it, holding it for a moment to study it. Took another long moment to position it on her shoulder, under her chin. Backed up a step.

  Her eyes went closed. The bow came up.

  Lukas held his breath. The instrument was one of the best—but it could not make a master from a novice, and she had made him promise not to laugh. It didn’t bode well.

  But she only played a scale, slow and steady. To get a feel for the instrument, he knew, to test the tension and tune of the strings. Both of which were faultless, but likely different from what she was used to. And sometimes people didn’t care about the quality if it was too different.

  But that smile played at the corners of her mouth again. She nodded, turned away from them—not deliberately, from the looks of it. More as if she’d forgotten they were there. And then she played.

  He recognized the piece—I Lombardi alla Prima Crociata. He’d played it himself three years ago, when the Conservatoire presented a season of Verdi on the tenth anniversary of the composer’s death. It was, as Miss Davies had requested, lively. And challenging to play beautifully.

  But her fingers never stumbled over the quick notes. Her bow never hesitated in its back-and-forth glide over the strings. And the song came to life in her hands. Even without the rest of the strings to provide the beat and background, it skipped through the high, lighthearted sections and then sobbed its way through the minor phrases.

  When he’d practiced it at home, he’d always missed the accompanying strings, the percussion, the woodwinds. He’d always felt this was a piece that needed the harmony, despite the violin having the melody.

  He didn’t think so now.

  Jules sidled up beside him and spoke in low French. “I assumed she would be an amateur. But she could give you a run for first chair, Lukas, were she to audition for it.”

  She could. And where usually the thought would have ignited a flame of jealousy, his chest had no room for that just now. Not given the appreciation surging through him. He could only hum his answer.

  Jules chuckled. “I didn’t think I’d ever see the day when a woman struck you dumb.”

  “Gloat later. Just now I’m listening to a master.” He nudged his friend aside and moved to get a better view of her face as she played.

  Her posture could be improved. And she was still playing to the wall more than to her audience. But the skill . . . her skill was unsurpassed.

  Perhaps his staring had unnerved her—she brought the piece to an end far too soon, using a cadence from the middle part to do so. The others all burst into applause. Lukas lurched another step forward, all but whimpering.

  Oh yes, Jules would be gloating later. But that didn’t matter. Lukas spread his hands. “Why did you stop? Please keep playing. I would love to hear you finish the piece.”

  Miss Forsythe leapt back a step when she saw how near he was. What was the matter with this girl? He was still a large stride away, by no means too close.

  She seemed to realize as much and eased half a step closer again, clearing her throat. “I cannot, sir, though I thank you for saying so. But I don’t know the rest of it. That’s all I heard.”

  Jules edged closer too. And his brows were wearing the same frown Lukas felt tugging on his. “All you heard?”

  Her eyes had gone back to the violin, her gaze stroking over it like a caress. “Yes, I heard the London Symphony practicing it last week. But I couldn’t stay long enough to hear the end.”

  His friend held up a hand. “Wait. You heard someone practicing it—the complete ensemble, no less—and can then play the violin part so perfectly yourself?”

  Her cheeks flushed such a becoming shade of pink that Lukas decided then and there he would have to elicit blushes as often as he could. “Well, I don’t know that it’s perfectly.”

  “I do.” Lukas tucked his hands behind his back to keep from reaching out when a lock of hair slipped from her style to frame her face. If she was the kind to be so startled at him standing an end-table’s length away, she would probably bite him if he made a move like that. Not that he went about touching the hair of women he barely knew. Except when he was trying to know them considerably better. In which case they usually purred at him and turned their faces into his hand and . . .

  Not likely with her.

  He slid a step to the side. “So you play by ear?” He could pick out a melody, of course. Work out something he’d heard. But he certainly couldn’t re-create a piece that complex, so perfectly, having only heard it a time or two. “But you surely read music too. I can get you the rest of the fantasia. I have it with me, in my rooms.”

  She slid a step to the side as well—the one away from him. And nodded. “I do, though not nearly as well. I had to teach myself and—”

  “Teach yourself?” Jules’s laugh was half snort. “You surely studied under a master. Joachim?”

  Her brows knit. “Who?”

  “Who?” Lukas nearly laughed. Until he realized she was quite serious. Or pretending to be. But how could a violinist of her talent not know of the greatest violin master of their day? He looked to Gwen Davies. “Perhaps you can tell us, since your guest will play coy. Under whom did she study? Or perhaps you took lessons together at school?”

  Miss Davies wouldn’t meet his gaze. And her fingers twisted the fabric of her dress. “I . . . I didn’t actually know she played. She was a few years behind me at the academy, you see. And apparently quite a bit ahead of me on the violin.”

  Miss Forsythe shoved that slip of hair behind her ear with far less care than he would have used on it. “Now look, I won’t have you making fun of me. I may be an amateur, but—”

  “Amateur!” Jules laughed outright this time, going so far as to turn to include Miss Blaker in his mirth. “Listen to her. As if she does not know quite well that she could put Lukas out of a job.”

  Lukas shot his friend a glare. “There is room in the world for more than one violinist, Jules.” But he had to look back at her. Had to. “Why are you not in an orchestra somewhere? Perhaps it is beneath your station?” But she’d said she’d gone to school on scholarship. So then, this should have been a logical step. Any ensemble would be grateful to have her, even if her sight-reading skills were far beneath her by-ear skills.

 
“Now you’re teasing me.” And she looked none too happy about it. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about . . . about auditions or whatever would be needed for that.”

  “Your instructor could surely have led you through the process.”

  She looked ready to snarl.

  Lukas held up a hand before she could. “My apologies. I seem to be probing a sensitive subject.” Which he intended to probe more fully. But subtlety was obviously called for. “Perhaps you will play us something else? What of . . .” He searched his mind for another of the most complicated pieces, eyes on the plasterwork of the ceiling. “Bach’s Chaconne from Partita No. 2 in D Minor?”

  She simply blinked. “I’m afraid I don’t know that one. Not by title, anyway. What does it sound like?”

  Gwen Davies was pushing to her feet. “Oh, I have it! I never could play it well, but I have the music. It was always my favorite. I brought that box of music with me, didn’t I, Daisy? Isn’t that the one we stored in the spare room?”

  “Oh, I believe you did.” Daisy Davies pushed to her feet too. “But you put it in the attic with the trunks, I think.”

  “No, I’m quite sure it was the spare room.”

  “You check there, I’ll look in the attic. Just a moment, Willa. We won’t be long.”

  The two sisters sped from the room, Miss Blaker moving after them. “They’ll never find it there. I’m all but certain all the sheet music is in the upstairs parlor. Excuse me for a moment.”

  Miss Forsythe’s eyes went wide as the three women abandoned her, and she reached out with the hand still holding the bow. “Oh, but . . . wait . . .”

  Lukas exchanged a bit of a grin with Jules. And made a point of not stepping closer again, though he wanted to. “My parents hired a music tutor from the time I was four. I imagine you began just as early, oui? And you must practice hours each day.”

  A war raged through her eyes for a moment—a war he knew well. Women’s eyes often had such battles in them. The question of whether to be truthful or to lie. Her shoulders sagged. “I didn’t pick up a violin until I was twelve.”