Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  Aurelia wondered why she was not more surprised to discover it was he. But then, she reflected wryly, last night had taken the cake as far as surprises went. “Thank you, Lord Trevenan.” To her relief, her voice sounded steady and calm. “Have you been listening long?”

  “Long enough.” He came further into the room. “I was not aware that you played.”

  “I hadn’t, not for a while,” Aurelia confessed. After the accident, she had shunned anything that might call attention to herself, including music. “But I discovered that I regretted giving it up. There was a piano at our hotel in Bad Ems, so I asked if I might practice on it. I hope to regain some degree of proficiency soon.”

  “From what I heard, I would say you already have.” He paused beside the piano.

  Aurelia made herself look at him and smile, grateful that her face did not show the ravages of a sleepless night. “That is kind of you to say, my lord.”

  “Not at all. As a Cornishman, I can be very exacting about music,” he explained. “I’ve heard my cousin perform this piece, but not so well. Chopin, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Waltz in C sharp minor.” She felt the betraying color rising in her cheeks; it would have to be a waltz she was playing!

  Lord Trevenan glanced aside, and Aurelia had the sudden impression that he felt just as self-conscious and awkward as she. Then he looked back, his gaze locking on hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “Talking of waltzes…perhaps you might favor me with another some evening.”

  Aurelia stilled, hands clenching in her lap. He’d done it now, dismantled last night’s mutual pretense in a mere handful of words. “You remember, then.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. But I wasn’t sure if you did.”

  Oh, God. When every moment of that waltz seemed permanently etched upon her memory—and her body. The warmth of his hands, the scent of his skin…

  The flood of longing that had nearly overwhelmed her at their last encounter threatened to rise again; she forced it back with grim determination. “I remember,” she told Amy’s fiancé. “But last night did not seem an appropriate time to mention that—we’d met before.” She attempted a light shrug. “Life has changed so much since then, for both of us.”

  “So it has,” he conceded.

  Aurelia took a steadying breath. “So, perhaps it’s best if we go on as if we only met for the first time last night, because in a way, we truly have.”

  Something stirred in the depths of his eyes; she could not tell whether it was relief or regret. Then, “No doubt you’re right,” he said, almost too quickly.

  Aurelia stifled a sigh, refusing to be hurt by his ready compliance. What good would it do to dwell upon the past? “That settles that, then. May I wish you every happiness with Amy?”

  “Thank you.” He paused, then continued, almost diffidently, “I’ve come to know your sister better over this past month. She is lovely and charming, and—I believe we would suit.”

  There were few things less pleasant, Aurelia discovered with a sinking heart, than hearing the man of one’s dreams praise another woman, even if that woman was one’s beloved sister. But Amy’s happiness meant more to her than those secret yearnings—and so did her own recovery. Her twin’s impending marriage to Lord Trevenan could not take away what she had accomplished: the long journey back to health and strength. She would not falter now.

  Lifting her chin, she mustered her brightest smile. “How could anyone not love Amy? I should be happy,” she managed not to stumble over that word, “to welcome into the family any man who cherishes her as she deserves.”

  He smiled back. “I would be no less honored to call you sister, Miss Aurelia.”

  And she must learn to call him brother, Aurelia told herself firmly. “Since we are to be related, I think you can leave off the ‘Miss,’ Lord Trevenan.”

  “Very well, if you’re likewise willing to dispense with formality and call me James.”

  James Trelawney. A good, masculine name, she thought, straightforward and unaffected. “What does my sister call you?”

  “Trevenan. She’s asked me to call her Amy, but unfortunately, I haven’t been able to persuade her to use my name yet.” His eyes held a glint of rueful amusement. “She told me that her first pony was called ‘James.’”

  Aurelia was startled into a laugh. “So he was! And my pony was called Jack. I’m afraid they were horrid little beasts, contrary as donkeys and thoroughly spoiled.” She sobered abruptly. “Forgive me, my lord, but I don’t feel I can use your Christian name if my sister does not.”

  He nodded. “Understood. Would you consider dropping the ‘Lord’ and just making it ‘Trevenan’? Perhaps I’ll get used to it faster if you and your sister both call me that.”

  “I believe I can manage that,” she assured him.

  “Relia! Trevenan!” Amy’s voice hailed them from the doorway. “I thought I heard your voices. My goodness, how serious you both look!” she added, regarding them with a quizzical eye. “Have I missed something?”

  “We were merely discussing possible excursions,” Trevenan replied, as Aurelia busied herself with putting away her music. “I know how eager you’ve been to see the exhibition at the Royal Academy. Would you and your sister—and your mother, for that matter—like to go today? One of my closest friends has a painting on display this year.”

  “That sounds wonderful!” Amy turned to her sister. “You’re coming, aren’t you, Relia? I know you enjoy looking at art as much as I do!”

  The queen and not the little mouse, Aurelia reminded herself. Disappointed hopes or not, she was not creeping back into the shadows; her days of hiding were over. She smiled at her twin as she rose from the piano. “Of course I’m coming. Let’s go find Mother.”

  Seven

  Painters and poets alike have always had license to dare anything!

  —Ovid, Ars Poetica

  While flattered by the earl’s invitation, Laura chose to stay behind and rest, so it was a party of three that arrived at Burlington House and made their way inside to the gallery.

  Walking at her sister’s side, Aurelia gazed about her in awe at the sheer number and diversity of the paintings covering the walls. Nearly as impressive was the fashionable crowd that wandered at a stately snail’s pace through the exhibition: ladies in lace-trimmed afternoon gowns and feather-and-flower bedecked hats and gentlemen scarcely less fine in morning dress and silk toppers—and all of them prepared to voice decided opinions on whatever they saw, whether on the walls or the other people in attendance.

  “How vulgar,” a dowager pronounced, peering through her lorgnette at one painting. A few feet away, a gentleman with a loud, rather pompous voice dismissed another effort as “too conventional, even insipid,” while his female companion—dowdy and unobtrusive as a peahen—murmured timid agreement. Nearby, two girls close to Aurelia’s age ignored the paintings but murmured less than flattering remarks about the frocks worn by some of the other ladies there.

  Aurelia glanced down self-consciously at her spring-green afternoon dress, then caught sight of Amy doing the same to her own rose-pink ensemble. Their eyes met and they looked away at once, struggling not to laugh. As Trevenan led them through the throng, they encountered some acquaintances of his or Amy’s and stopped to exchange brief pleasantries. Aurelia accustomed herself to being introduced anew to Society, though she was again agreeably surprised by the cordiality with which she was received.

  The press of people made reading the placards difficult, but Aurelia endeavored to do so anyway. Few of the names were recognizable, though she was charmed to see two new paintings by Waterhouse: a dramatic rendering of Ulysses and the Sirens and a quieter portrait of an auburn-haired girl in classical dress, daydreaming before an altar decked with flowers. Aurelia admired both but preferred the more contemplative mood of the latter.

  “Flora,” she read from the accompanying placard.

  “So serene,” Amy said on a sigh. “And t
he model is lovely. I wonder who she is. It must be fascinating to pose for an artist.”

  “Maybe, but think of having to sit still all that time,” Aurelia pointed out. “Or stand—or hold some other uncomfortable position for hours.”

  “Or pose in a full bathtub, like the model for Millais’s Ophelia,” Trevenan added. “I understand he was so intent on his work that he never noticed when the water became too cold for her and she took a severe chill. She sent him the doctor’s bill later.”

  “I hope he paid it. It seems the very least he could have done, under the circumstances!” Aurelia declared roundly.

  Amy nodded agreement. “I hope not all artists are as oblivious as Mr. Millais. Still, his model should have said something. I certainly wouldn’t have just lain there freezing to death!”

  “It does take the idea of suffering for one’s art to an extreme,” Trevenan agreed. He offered his arm to Amy. “Shall we continue?”

  By now they had traveled more than halfway around the room and the crowd was beginning to thin, slightly but appreciably. Perhaps visitors were recalling luncheon or other engagements, Aurelia speculated; she wouldn’t mind some refreshment herself, once they were finished here. But for now, it was simply a relief to have a clearer view of the remaining works.

  Further along the wall, they paused before another painting that, like Waterhouse’s, appeared to have a mythological theme. A young woman clad in flowing white robes sat at her loom, but her hands were idle, her rapt gaze fixed upon what looked like a huge mirror hanging before her. Reflected there were the shadowy forms of a man and a woman walking entwined beneath a softly glowing full moon.

  “Why, it’s the Lady of Shalott!” Amy exclaimed after several moments’ perusal.

  And indeed it was, Aurelia discovered upon reading the placard. “But in her web she still delights / To weave the mirror’s magic sights,” she quoted softly. “For often through the silent nights, / A funeral with plumes and lights and music / Went to Camelot…”

  Trevenan took up the recital, his deep voice sending a shiver down her spine. “Or when the moon was overhead, / Came two young lovers lately wed, / ‘I am half-sick of shadows,’ said / The Lady of Shalott.”

  “Who’s the artist?” Amy asked eagerly.

  “Thomas Sheridan,” Aurelia reported, consulting the placard again.

  Amy stiffened—just enough for a twin to notice. “I see.” Her tone cooled. “Was this the friend you mentioned, Trevenan?”

  “Indeed,” he replied, smiling. “This is Thomas’s first showing at the Royal Academy. Do you like the painting, my dear?”

  She shrugged. “It’s quite pretty, but perhaps a bit—derivative? There have been so many treatments of the subject, after all.”

  Aurelia glanced at her in surprise. It was so unlike Amy, with her keen interest in paintings and portraits, to damn fine work with faint praise. But her twin’s face was an impenetrable mask, showing not so much as a trace of her previous enthusiasm.

  “True enough,” her fiancé agreed, sounding more amused than offended. He turned to Aurelia. “Do you agree with your sister, Miss Aurelia?”

  “Oh…” Wishing she wasn’t quite so conscious of Trevenan’s dark gaze, Aurelia turned back to the painting. “Well, I have seen other versions of The Lady of Shalott. But I do think each artist can bring something new to a familiar subject and make it his own.” She paused, peering more closely at Sheridan’s work. “I like the artist’s use of light and dark here, but I think it’s the lady’s expression that makes the painting truly memorable. How sad, how wistful she looks watching the lovers. Even her hands have fallen still. You can tell she’s seeing all the things she can never have. And the title—‘Half-Sick of Shadows’—is inspired,” she added.

  “Thank you,” a new voice remarked behind her. “I was rather pleased with it myself.”

  Startled, Aurelia turned to see that a lanky man with brown hair and clear green eyes had joined them.

  “Thomas!” Trevenan clasped the newcomer’s hand. “What brings you here today?”

  “Well, I’ve received a few offers for the Lady—good ones, as it turns out—but I wanted to see if I could bear to part with her.” Sheridan’s smile was quick and rueful. “No one tells you what a double-edged sword it can be—producing a painting good enough to sell.”

  Trevenan smiled, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Well, it’s a fine piece of work—whatever you decide to do.” He turned to Amy. “You know my fiancée, Miss Newbold.”

  “Good day, Miss Newbold.” Sheridan bowed over Amy’s hand; she gave a cool nod in response, showing none of her usual warmth and friendliness. Watching, Aurelia wondered uneasily just what the story was there.

  “And this is her sister, Miss Aurelia,” Trevenan resumed.

  Sheridan turned, and Aurelia found herself the focus of those startlingly green eyes. “Enchanted, Miss Aurelia.” The painter bowed over her hand as well and smiled more warmly this time; the effect was little short of dazzling. “I hear you’ve been abroad and have just recently returned to London.”

  “Very recently,” Aurelia confessed. “I arrived only yesterday. Before, I was at Bad Ems.”

  He regarded her keenly. “Your sojourn there appears to have done you a world of good.”

  “Thank you, it did.” Somewhat to her surprise, Aurelia felt neither threatened nor offended by his scrutiny. But there was no malice in Sheridan’s assessing gaze, though it seemed to encompass her every feature, scar and all.

  “Pardon me, Miss Aurelia,” he began, “but if I may take the liberty?”

  He meant to touch her, she realized. Too astonished even to consider refusing, she nodded bemused consent. Much in the way Claudine had done, Sheridan slipped a finger beneath her chin and tipped her face up to the light; his touch was gentle, even respectful, despite his own acknowledgment of taking liberties.

  “Very clever,” he said, after a moment. “One might even say artistic—the effect of the hair and the earrings.” He brushed a finger against one of the teardrop pearls dangling from her ears before releasing her chin.

  “Thank you,” Aurelia said, a little uncertainly. “A friend of mine—a Frenchwoman—gave me some advice on both.”

  “Ah, that explains it. Frenchwomen have a matchless sense of style.”

  “They do, indeed. When I visit Paris, I can’t help feeling like a frump by comparison, no matter how well I dress,” Aurelia confessed.

  “If it’s any consolation, you don’t look like one,” he assured her. “In fact, I would say you embody the best of both worlds: the sophistication of the Old and the freshness of the New.”

  Aurelia felt herself coloring, not just at the compliment but at the open admiration she saw in those penetrating green eyes. Charm to spare, she thought, and a way of making you feel as if you were the only person in the room. She wondered why Amy disliked him so.

  “Thomas, would you kindly refrain from flirting with my future sister-in-law—at least, not quite so blatantly?” Trevenan’s amused tone seemed laced with a faint irritation.

  “Slander, James!” Sheridan protested. He gave Aurelia another winning smile. “I assure you, Miss Aurelia, I intend nothing so idle and frivolous as mere flirtation. To be completely frank, I should like to paint you.”

  “Paint me?” Aurelia echoed, astonished. “Good heavens, why?”

  “Why not?” he retorted. “As it happens, I am always looking for new faces to paint. And not just pretty ones, though yours is certainly that,” he added hastily. “Interesting ones—the kind that capture and hold the eye, that compel one to look more closely.”

  “You think I have such a face?” Aurelia tried not to sound as incredulous as she felt.

  “Without a doubt. Your eyes and mouth are very expressive, and that’s what I look for in a model. I’ve seen Society beauties with perfect features but no animation whatsoever,” he went on. “Like wax dolls. And then I’ve seen ordinary, even plain, women whose
faces were so mobile, so alive with every thought and emotion, that I could not look away.”

  “Oh, my,” Aurelia said faintly. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Sheridan.”

  “Say that you’ll consider it?” he persisted. “And perhaps allow me the chance to persuade you over tea?”

  “I believe I’m supposed to say that,” Trevenan interposed with some acerbity. “Ladies, I was just about to ask if you would care for tea, once we were finished here.”

  “Tea sounds delightful, my lord,” Amy replied at once, giving him a brilliant smile. “And I am quite ready to take some refreshment now. What about you, Relia?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Aurelia said hurriedly. “Why don’t we all go?” she added, not wishing to snub Mr. Sheridan.

  “Indeed.” Trevenan turned to his friend. “What place do you recommend, Thomas?”

  “Well, Fortnum and Mason serves excellent pastries,” Sheridan replied. “And it has the advantage of being just across the street…”

  ***

  “I’ll have the chocolate gateau, please,” Amy announced, pointing at the luscious-looking slice on the cake trolley. A smiling waitress served her promptly, then turned to Aurelia.

  “Um…” She fretted her lower lip as she gazed at the pastries, each one more tempting than the last. “The mille-feuille for me, please,” she said at last and just managed not to sigh with delight as the layered confection, bursting with rich pastry cream, was set before her.

  “That looks wonderful,” Amy said, eying it appreciatively. “I’ll trade tastes with you?”

  “Of course.” Aurelia carefully cut off a morsel of her pastry for her sister and accepted a bite of Amy’s gateau in exchange. “Delicious,” she declared after swallowing the mouthful.

  Amy’s response to the mille-feuille was similarly enthusiastic. Trevenan and Mr. Sheridan smiled like indulgent uncles at their pleasure. Between the four of them, they’d consumed an astonishing amount of food, Aurelia reflected: a variety of filled sandwiches, still-warm scones with jam and cream, and now savories and cakes.