“Isobel.” Dresmond outstretched his arm. “Come. I would like to introduce you to our guests.”
A young woman, draped in a blush pink gown, her golden curls pinned around her head, had followed the earl through the crowd. She had stopped a short distance away, though, her large blue eyes wide with uncertainty.
“Isobel,” said Dresmond, “this is Mr. Rees. A violin virtuoso. And his fiancée, Miss Wright.”
Isobel stepped nearer and bobbed her head. “How do you do?”
“My fiancée,” continued Dresmond. “Miss Isobel Harte.”
Emily smiled. Miss Isobel Harte. An American heiress. And, according to the same gossip sheets, the windfall Dresmond depended on to save him. It had taken the earl years to find another heiress with enough funds to cover his debts. Most heiresses wanted to marry a duke. But eligible dukes were hard to snag, and eventually one had to settle for a lower member of the peerage.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Harte,” said Emily.
“An honor,” from Rees.
Miss Harte returned the smile, her shyness giving way to an easier manner. She had no notion of Emily’s former attachment to the earl. But she would learn the truth soon enough. There were plenty of gossipmongers at the party, all eager to reveal the scandalous past and enlighten their ignorant hostess.
Emily cared nothing for the twaddle. Truly, it repulsed her. All that mattered was the part Miss Harte would play in the earl’s demise.
“You are both most welcomed,” returned Isobel.
And so, on that cordial note, the dramatic scene so many had been waiting for with bated breath flitted away. Emily heard a few disappointed sighs from the crowd, but they needn’t fret—scandal was still approaching.
An hour later, after a myriad introductions, Emily and Rees found themselves ensconced in an alcove behind the musicians’ stand.
“You are a star tonight,” she said in a biting voice. So many toes had been crushed for the opportunity to touch the violinist. So many envious glares had come her way, as if she possessed a coveted treasure. “Do you shine at every soiree?”
She had snapped with unfounded displeasure. What was the matter with her? Yes, every lord and lady had swooned at his feet, but he was a talented musician. Of course he was worshipped for his music. And while he had once played for her alone, he now gave himself freely to others. He was a light, after all. And a light was not supposed to be covered or hidden in a cupboard. It was supposed to shine. Why ever did that bother her?
She lifted her eyes. The fire burning in his unsettled her soul. For the first time, she viewed him through a different lens. He wasn’t Rees, her pan, her fairytale musician. He was Mr. Rees, master violinist and world phenomenon. He had everything a mortal man desired on this earth . . . yet he remained devoted to her.
Her breath snagged in her throat. Her heart seized. She struggled to maintain her steadfast control. If she slipped now . . .
“The earl has taken great pains to ignore you all night,” he said at last, prodding her for a reaction.
“I know.” She tweaked her gloves, voice shaky. “I’m not worried, though. Do you dance, Rees? I suspect Lady Hickox taught you to dance. Every true gentleman must dance.”
She took his hand. His grip tightened, and her pulse jumped. She ignored the sensation and started for the floor. “Dance with me, Rees.”
But he pulled her back into the alcove and covered her body with his own. “What game are you playing, princess? You will tell me.”
His rough voice and intimate touch roused unbidden emotions. No. She shut her eyes. I don’t feel anything for him. I don’t feel anything for him.
“I—I can’t tell you.”
His warm lips brushed hers. “If you do not tell me, I will play my own game . . . and you will not like the rules.”
“Someone will see us,” she hissed, a shiver wracking her spine.
“I am to be your husband, remember?” His fingers splayed and cupped her waist while his thumb stroked her ribs in an achingly familiar rhythm. “I can touch you whenever and wherever it pleases me, ‘someone’ be damned.”
Old longings stirred to life, forbidden dreams of actually being his wife, and she shoved the tempting, unwelcome desires aside. He just wanted her intent. And he’d seduce it from her if he had to, but she would not be seduced. Not now. Not when she was so close to her goal.
“You promised not to cause a scandal if I remained in your sight, and I am in your sight,” for now, “so keep your hands and lips away from me.”
She pushed his hand off her waist and slipped away. On the edge of the dance floor, she regained her quickened breath, forced her thundering heart into submission.
Keep focused!
Emily observed the twirling couples and spotted Dresmond and Isobel intertwined in a waltz. She next glanced at the octagonal timepiece mounted on the wall. Half past nine. Her fingers curled. She needed to attract the attention of Miss Harte. And since Rees wouldn’t dance with her, her options were few.
She made several attempts to smile at Miss Harte, but the girl was too engaged with her partner. Or she ignored Emily on purpose. The gossipmongers, perhaps the earl himself, had surely told her about the past, but there was no reason for Miss Harte to give Emily the cut direct. She and the earl had separated on amicable terms. And she was now “engaged” to Rees. There was no reason to avoid her, the fiancée of the world’s most celebrated violinist.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled with sensation, and a warmth spread through her as Rees settled behind her. “Might I be of assistance?”
She glanced up and over her shoulder in time to catch his seductive, boyish smile and deliberate nod. When she looked back across the dance floor, Miss Harte was watching him, blushing.
As the music ended, Rees whispered into her ear, “You need me, princess.”
She needed him, she thought with a shudder. She needed him to fulfill her plan, to avenge her father’s murder . . . though she suspected his meaning deeper than that.
A cluster of emotions gathered at the core of her being, but she pushed them aside, the confusion, the distraction too overwhelming. She centered instead on Miss Harte, who whispered briefly to the earl before crossing the dance floor.
Isobel stopped a short distance away from Emily. “I hope you are both enjoying yourselves this evening,” she said with a shy smile. “I have yet to see you dance.”
“My fiancé is too popular for dancing,” returned Emily, still unable to hide the crispness in her voice.
“Oh, my, yes. I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Rees. Please, do not allow the other guests to importune you and Miss Wright. I insist you both enjoy yourselves. I would feel ever so guilty, otherwise.”
Emily regained her composure and smiled. “Nonsense, my dear.”
“Oh, but I would.” The heiress blushed again. “You see, I am a great music lover. Ever since I was a child, Papa and I performed duets—he on the violin and I the piano.”
The girl’s face softened at the tender memory. For a moment, Emily saw herself in the bright-eyed Isobel—an adoring daughter who worshipped her papa. And she was taken aback by the unexpected, violent swell of feeling in her breast.
“I believe you are here on my account, Mr. Rees.,” said Isobel. “I suspect the earl invited you, a renowned musician, to bring me cheer.”
Emily prayed Rees wouldn’t snort in derision, but he maintained his indifference and offered a courteous, “I am honored, Miss Harte.”
Dresmond, like every other aristocrat, wanted Rees at his affair for the glory of “the catch” and nothing more. If the innocent Miss Harte believed otherwise, she was mistaken. Fortunately, her misguided belief was the very boon Emily had been searching for since the night’s start.
“Are you in need of cheer, Miss Harte?”
“No. I—I mean, perhaps.”
“Then you must permit my fiancé to perform a concert in your honor.”
&nb
sp; Isobel’s eyes rounded. “Oh, I couldn’t ask such an imposition!”
“It’s no imposition a’tall.”
A dark voice declared, “I’m afraid I don’t have my violin.”
But Emily held her stance with a firm, “I’m sure one of the musicians will loan you his violin. Don’t you agree, Miss Harte?”
“I’m sure he would, but—”
“Then it is settled,” she clipped.
Isobel glanced nervously at Rees, who reluctantly bowed in acquiescence. She beamed. “Splendid! Oh, how I wish Papa were here to hear you play.”
“Is your papa still in America?” asked Emily.
“No, he is here in London.” The light in the girl’s eyes dimmed. “But he is unable to attend the ball. He is most ill.”
An unseen force smacked her in the chest, and Emily stepped back, staggered really, bumping into Rees. “I—I am sorry to hear that, Miss Harte. There are wonderful physicians in London.”
“And they’re taking excellent care of him, but his condition is worsening. I’m afraid . . . I do not think he will . . . Let us enjoy the night, shall we? I must announce the impromptu concert.”
Isobel clapped her hands, drawing all eyes. “Honored guests . . .”
As Isobel revealed news of the performance, Emily turned toward Rees, her heart in her throat.
“Did you hear her?” she whispered, voice ragged. “Her father is ill.”
“Yes, but we don’t know he’s being poisoned by the earl.”
“How can you doubt it?”
Emily’s mind screamed to think another poor girl was about to lose her papa. The earl was mad. Absolutely mad. Evil. How could he do this again?
“I have to stop him.”
“Emily.” He cupped her shoulders and dropped his voice. “This is too much for you.”
“No.”
“We should leave.”
“No!” She dragged in a deep breath. “I’m all right. Truly, I am. I can do this, Rees.”
“Do what?”
Suddenly, the crowd erupted with applause.
As she delved into his eyes, she mouthed the words, “Play for me.”
But he was clearly torn, his expression unsettled. And the noise in the room only confused the mind even more. He was about to stalk off the dance floor, her in tow, she sensed it, so she whirled around, stepping beside him, sliding her hand through his arm.
Emily squeezed his bicep. She smiled at the assembled guests, hoping to keep the charade alive. She was just so close. She couldn’t walk away now.
A musician approached Rees, violin in hand. He bowed, offering Rees his instrument.
Rees made no move to accept the violin. Emily was tempted to take it and push it into his undecided hands. But after a tense moment, he reluctantly accepted it.
She could feel his sidelong gaze on her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she observed the myriad servants carrying chairs into the ballroom. A few were set near the musicians’ stand, others arranged in rows.
Isobel invited the elderly matrons to sit, reserving the front two chairs for herself—and Emily.
She waved at Emily, urging her to come forward. The remaining guests gathered around the configuration, standing in anticipation.
Without hesitation, Emily crossed the short distance to the musicians’ stand and took the offered seat. Knowing Rees wouldn’t leave the ball without her, she folded her hands in her lap and finally looked in his direction.
He remained unmoving, instrument in hand, his knuckles white as he gripped the violin’s neck.
Play for me.
At last he shifted, like a bronze statue stepping off its pedestal, and approached the musicians’ stand, coming to rest in the center of it.
Her heart ballooned with satisfaction. She looked again at the mounted timepiece. A quarter to ten. Glancing askance, she spotted the earl with a group of gentlemen. Sparkling champagne in hands, they awaited the performance with admiring expressions.
Emily noted the earl was positioned near the ballroom entrance. He would make a discrete exit at ten o’clock, as was his usual habit. At least, after four years, she hoped it was still his habit. And then she remembered Isobel’s grim revelation, that her father was “ill,” and Emily felt certain the earl had not changed his habits—any of them.
She turned toward Isobel, wanting so much to ask her all sorts of questions about her father’s condition, his symptoms. But she sensed the girl would not admit the truth, that her papa was losing his mind. She would protect him, his reputation, as Emily had protected her own father’s character.
Isobel leaned toward her and whispered, “I know you were once engaged to Lord Dresmond.”
She offered a stiff smile. “It was a long time ago, Miss Harte.”
A lifetime ago.
“Some believe you still have tender feelings for my fiancé.”
Emily had never cared for the earl, not even during their courtship and engagement when she’d thought him an honorable man. She had consented to the match to make her father happy, and that was the only reason. That the guests believed she harbored a romantic flame for the murdering fiend, churned her innards, and she clenched her belly at the repulsive suggestion.
“I assure you, Miss Harte, I do not have any such feelings for Lord Dresmond.”
She curled her gloved fingers together, desiring the earl’s throat between them.
“Oh, I know, Miss Wright.”
“You do?” She eyed the girl, surprised. “Despite the rumors?”
Isobel blushed. “I have noticed his regard for you. Mr. Rees, that is.”
Her breath hitched. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Forgive me, Miss Wright. I only broach the delicate matter to put your mind at ease, to tell you I don’t believe the gossip.” She smiled. “In a room filled with so many admirers, Mr. Rees has eyes for you, and you alone. I envy you such devotion, Miss Wright. He loves you in a great way, and I don’t doubt you return his affections.”
At the powerful, unwanted stirrings in her breast, Emily looked back at Rees. He stood in the middle of the musicians’ stand, a solitary figure, his fiery eyes intent on her.
A tremor rattled her, right down to her bones.
He reached for his cravat and loosened the knot. No, he unfastened the fabric entirely, leaving it draped around his neck, his throat exposed.
A great murmur arose at the titillating display.
Rees lifted the violin and wedged it under his chin, his stare unwavering, and the shuddering realization came to her. He would play for her.
Her heart boomed so hard in her chest, her ribs ached. He intended to ignore the other three hundred people in the room and play solely for her, intimately for her. He was about to strip himself—their relationship—to its core for a ravenous audience.
“No,” she whispered.
Stop.
He lifted the bow and connected with the strings.
The room fell silent as music welled in the cavernous space. It was so still, even fans stopped fluttering.
Emily held her breath as she listened to the haunting tune, the lullaby from days past. It was the same beautiful melody he had played on the night she’d first discovered his secret, that he was her musical pan. She had almost lost her life that night, too. But he had stopped her fall.
She closed her eyes. Her lungs burned and she released the trapped breath, slowly, painfully. Why was he doing this to her? Why now? Tears formed in her eyes, and her heart twisted with every meaningful note.
God, she loved him. She had loved him since she was a child. She had loved him more than anyone, even her papa.
The tears fell. She felt a kerchief pressed into her hand, but she made no attempt to reach for her face, to wipe away the anguish. If Rees was determined to reveal everything, let him. She had guarded the truth about her feelings for him for far too long.
Emily opened her eyes. Through the watery wall of tears, she met his pas
sionate glare. She had wept for him when she’d lost him five years ago, wept so fiercely, she hadn’t noticed a murderer in her house. She had been blinded by grief and regret then, and she still felt blinded, burdened.
But his music inspired hope. Hope for a day when the nightmare would end and untroubled sleep would come. And amidst the turmoil in her soul, Emily found herself reaching for that hope.
As soon as the music ended, her uplifted spirit crashed to earth.
A stunned audience remained motionless, then broke into resounding applause. The crowd rushed Rees. He stepped back, bewildered, as if he too had awakened from a dream and found himself, not alone with her, but in a furor of lost, strange souls.
Emily lifted to her feet.
“Are you all right, Miss Wright?” from a worried Isobel.
“I am.” She dabbed at her eyes with the kerchief. “Please join me in the earl’s study in ten minutes, Miss Harte.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know what ails your father, and I have the cure.”
Her blue eyes widened. “But—”
“If you will excuse me, Miss Harte. I need a moment to myself.”
Emily flicked her skirt train and eyes intent on the absconding earl, wended through the legion of guests, all still pressing enthusiastically on Rees. He was trapped. And he would remain so for the time she needed to rectify the past—once and for all.
CHAPTER 10
Emily opened the study door.
Under the bright light of the table lamp, the earl inserted a hypodermic needle into his arm, infusing his body with the opioid codeine. He had been addicted to the substance since their engagement, longer even. At the time, she’d made no inquiries into his habit. She was his fiancée, not his wife, and she’d no right to meddle in his personal affairs. And while she’d even less right to invade his privacy now, she simply had no qualm about doing it.
Emily entered the room, startling the man.
“What are you doing here, Miss Wright?”
She shut the door, though not fully, leaving it ajar so a pair of eyes and ears could spy through the crack.
“I need a word, Lord Dresmond.”
“This is not the appropriate time—or place,” he admonished, rolling down his shirt sleeve. “We will be missed.”
The Princess and the Pauper Page 14