London's Best Kept Secret

by Anabelle Bryant

  Now strengthened by her recent vow to orchestrate a plan to win Dearing’s affection, she riffled through the sheet music selections on the rack and with a faint huff of impatience gathered them together to place them aside. Setting her fingers to the keys, she closed her eyes and began a Mozart concerto, a favored arrangement that spoke to her heart as much as her skill.

  Blinking away distraction, she watched her hands command the music, striking notes with determined confidence while maintaining exacting control. If she could fill her mind with music this evening and funnel troubled emotions into every scale and crescendo, she would be able to think clearly. Tonight, at dinner—

  The hair across her nape prickled to attention. A scuffed sound, the shift of a chair as it accepted a person’s weight, caused her fingers to stall upon the keys.

  “Please continue.”

  The stark request echoed within the room and stricken, she jerked her gaze over her right shoulder, aware and at the same time incredibly startled to discover Dearing had chosen to enter. Hadn’t she hoped, wished, prayed he’d do so days, weeks, months before?

  “Good afternoon, milord.” She offered a tremulous smile. Was he angry? His expression remained inscrutable despite the ample lantern light. What was it he wanted of her this evening to discern it from so many others?

  “It wasn’t my intention to interrupt.”

  He offered some semblance of a smile that neither proved genuine nor reached his eyes. She couldn’t be sure considering the distance, though she did notice how handsome he appeared. His attire was flawless as always, broad shoulders defined in strong angles by the precise cut of his jacket. The taut stretch of fabric magnified his physique by his masculine pose, his arms crossed upon his chest, his legs stretched before him from pressed trousers to polished ankle boots.

  “Please continue.” His voice rang out with aristocratic control.

  She returned her attention to the pianoforte, though her heart pounded with such fierce tempo, she’d hardly be able to command the keys. Before she played one note, vanity intruded. Good heavens, what did she look like? She couldn’t very well smooth her hair to assure it was not in disarray. Without a doubt, he’d note the tremble in her fingers. By force of exertion, her coif usually suffered while she played. Hairpins were often lost, used to hold her sheet music when they’d tumbled free.

  And then there was her position. Back to the door and seated, Dearing would be staring at her spine. Was her posture natural or forced? Did her bottom look all the larger for her skirts spread outward on the bench? She took a shuddered breath, all at once unable to begin.

  Yet he waited.

  And this was what she wanted.

  An opportunity, no matter how small and insignificant. She would impress him with her skill, if nothing else. Her musical aptitude far outshone her beauty or clever mind.

  She placed her fingers on the keys, aware he’d come into the music room by his own volition. She hadn’t needed to offer a pathetic invitation and wouldn’t waste this advantageous occasion. Her husband had entered the room to hear her play.

  Her husband.

  As much as she cherished the role of wife, she longed to regard her husband by his given name. Jeremy. Such a fine name. Strong and rhythmic on the tongue. She’d never uttered it in his presence. Not even on their wedding day. Oh, she said it often enough to herself, whispered it in the darkness of her bedchambers before she surrendered to sleep, but never face-to-face. It all seemed odd and unacceptable, and yet his request for formality persisted, permeating their relationship daily.

  He cleared his throat and jarred her back to the present.

  The first notes startled her more than they should, and her nerves hammered against her ribs in a disconcerting mixture of trepidation and cautious optimism. She’d intended to play Mozart’s Idomeneo but instead found herself producing Haydn’s Sonata No. 59 in E-flat major. She hardly knew why, the pieces so vastly different, but as always, she gave herself to the music, each precise note and chord an extension of pent-up emotion.

  She wanted, no, she needed to perform the piece perfectly. He wouldn’t detect an error, most especially at the sonata’s fast pace, yet deep down where her heart ached with the affection she so truly wished to offer him, she yearned to produce this perfect gift. A token of sorts. The same as his attendance within the room. Perhaps at last they would begin to communicate on some level other than cordialities. Music held power. The right melody could evoke enough emotion to change the world. At least, she so believed.

  She finished with pride, the arrangement pristine, but she did not turn immediately. For the smallest sign, a comment or sound of approval, would go a long way to soothe her thrumming nerves.

  In that agonizing wait for his reaction, she recalled the first time she laid eyes on Jeremy Lockhart, Viscount Dearing, and the precious fragility of hope, anticipation and expectation she’d entrapped within her heart, akin to rare gems. She’d made her offering, become his betrothed with the promise to share her life in exchange for his, but things had gone terribly awry.

  “You’re quite accomplished.”

  She heard a note of pride in the compliment, though it was voiced haltingly, as if it stuck in his throat and he wasn’t sure whether to allow it freedom. She stood from the bench and turned. The lingering ache in her chest, which accompanied the memory of what might have been expanded with suffocating insistence. “Thank you, milord.” Jeremy. “Would you like to hear another arrangement?”

  “Not this evening.” He stood, his shadow climbing the wall behind him, looming and overpowering, like so many unspoken words and unsettled emotions.

  His eyes searched her face, but she wondered what he sought. Could he read her mind, divine her secrets and look into her heart? Surely he saw the longing there.

  “Will you dine at home this evening?” An innocuous question. One she felt abashed to ask.

  “Yes.”

  His eyes swept over her, from top to bottom, and she questioned her appearance a second time. She would need to take greater effort in dressing. She wished to please him.

  “I visited my family recently. Mother and my sisters are well. Father arrived, and we strolled in the gardens together.” She babbled, attempting to fill the soundless air between them, struggling to keep her husband in the room where conversation seemed more difficult than the complicated chords and intervals on her sheet music.

  His expression changed markedly at the mention of her father. Nothing drastic, but she noted his jaw tightened and one dark brow twitched. She couldn’t imagine why. Her father thought highly of Dearing. Indeed he was their heroic rescuer.

  “I will see you at dinner, then.”

  He spoke at last, pivoted with enviable exactitude and left before she puzzled her way through his reaction. Yet to delay in the music room long would be a foolish mistake. She needed to decide on the quintessential dress for dinner.

  Entering the hall, she nearly collided with her husband’s secretary as he took his leave for the day.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Faxman. I was lost in thought.” She shook her head at her own foolishness.

  “No apology necessary. I experience the same condition daily.” His matter-of-fact tone assured.

  “Are you leaving now?” She glanced toward the windows, assessing the sun’s position.

  “It would appear Lord Dearing is finished for the day. There’s no work to be done once your music begins.”

  The secretary offered a congenial smile, though his words brought her distraught surprise. She believed Dearing enjoyed her music, but if it prevented him from accomplishing his work, it presented a different problem altogether. Was that why he’d entered the room today? She’d broken his concentration beyond repair? What was he doing locked away in his study for all those hours anyway?

  “I should be off.” Faxman moved toward the door, and Hudson emerged from the shadows.

  “Good afternoon.” She hardly managed the words as she made her
way to the stairs.

  Chapter Five

  Dearing muttered a string of black epithets as he paced the floorboards of the library. Bloody fool. Why hadn’t he acted on opportunity? He cursed himself a thousand times as he recalled the subtle willingness in Charlotte’s eyes. He’d accomplished the overture, entered the room and complimented her skill, and yet when he could most benefit from a romantic gesture, he’d shut down, backed away and left.

  When he’d perpetrated his plan, he was blinded by the solitary goal of winning Charlotte before another swooped in, whether Adams or some unbeknownst preferred suitor. He never anticipated the backlash of guilt for the heinous deeds he’d enacted, nor the complicated emotions that spread through his blood like fever. As much as he embraced the victory of winning, he’d stolen Charlotte’s control of the situation, forced her father’s hand and created a dichotomy of sorts. He might woo Charlotte into loving him, but were his secret revealed, she would despise him thereafter.

  Yet he must push forward.

  He strode to one of the large gateleg tables near the windows and stared down at the map unrolled atop the surface. Cartography was an avid interest. He enjoyed the precise measurement required to combine science and aesthetics, often drawing intricate depictions as if somehow through his control of latitude and longitude, he could find the balance needed in his own life. He spared a glance to the room’s interior, littered with the evidence of his gravitation, then returned his attention to the parchment on the table. His eyes fell to the compass rose, and he traced a finger over the orientation arrows. Why couldn’t marriage include such distinct directions?

  North, to Charlotte’s mind. He would dazzle her with clever conversation and amusing anecdotes. East and west, their alignment extended as if arms in which to enfold her. And south. He chuckled a low acknowledgment as his finger skimmed the parchment downward. Yes, he knew what pleasure awaited there.

  Despite Lindsey’s jests, Dearing was a hot-blooded, passionate man whose hard body begged to be buried within Charlotte’s softness. Late at night, when the house lay silent, he knew that condition too well. But he desired more than a relief from physical attraction. His desire to know every aspect of his wife’s intelligence ran deep, despite their marriage remaining at the shallowest level. He’d created the complex interwoven reality of the situation and now he must find his way forward.

  Resolved to accomplish further success on the pathway to his wife’s heart, he held on to a shred of hope, unwilling to dredge up the insecurity and concern that plagued his good intentions. Too often, irrational suspicions forced themselves to his head and took control of the doubt within his soul.

  There was simply no way Charlotte could discover his past. He’d taken every precaution. He patted his waistcoat pocket, where beneath his handkerchief he kept the invaluable key that opened the leather box on his desk in his study. Thankfully, his secrets were secured, just as they needed to be.

  * * *

  Charlotte lay back on her bed in an attempt to calm the arrhythmic complaint of her heart. Why hadn’t she gone to Dearing directly? Breached the distance between them and smiled at his attention to her performance? How would she ever convince her husband to care for her if she couldn’t seize the smallest opportunities Fate haplessly threw in her direction? First her glove, and now this.

  She’d give a lock of hair to know what he considered in his quiet watchfulness of her piano playing. Faxman implied it disrupted her husband’s concentration. Hopefully, the secretary misconstrued the circumstance. Still, Dearing’s silence provoked her as if he seamlessly deciphered her thoughts when she had no idea to his pensive attentiveness. If only she possessed a bolder constitution, like Amelia.

  Amelia indeed.

  What would Amelia do?

  Charlotte recalled the retelling of Amelia and Scarsdale’s first kiss. Her friend could barely sleep from the thrilling impact. Charlotte desired that same insomniac affliction. Tonight, she must look her best, be poised, witty and attractive, and with the fortification of wine, venture into the world of flirtation. Hopefully, the combination would thaw Dearing’s heart; otherwise their marriage would remain isolated, all for naught. She had no other weapons at her disposal.

  She stared at the embroidered white canopy atop her lonely, chaste four-poster bed, a symbolic mockery of her virginity. She exhaled thoroughly despite the thread of dismal failure that wove its way into her chest like a tourniquet around her heart.

  Not a moment later, her secret pet sprung atop the counterpane in pursuit of a dust mote. Seeking the warm comfort of friendship, she gathered the kitten into her palms and brought it close for an affectionate cuddle. “You need a name, don’t you?”

  The kitten mewed in objection and wriggled free, pouncing away to larger conquests and the tempting ribbons on the silk box pillows. Charlotte closed her eyes, blinking hard to clear the threat of tears. Attempting to focus on the kitten as distraction, she twisted her head to the left, where her eyes settled on the adjoining door to her husband’s chambers, a silent sentry to all she wanted on the other side, an opening into his world. If only the panel were a window.

  With a sigh of resolution, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the mattress. Her feet brushed the chilled floorboards, and in much the same manner as her kitten, she hopped to the thick wool rug in search of warmth. Her right heel settled atop something sharp and unyielding. After a grumbled complaint, she moved aside to reveal a key. What was it doing on her rug? She hadn’t lost it, and she doubted Jill had cause to carry a key about her rooms.

  She examined the nondescript bronze as it lay flat in her palm, turning it over twice before she eyed the doorknob of the panel directly in front of her. Dearing’s rooms. The doorknob didn’t have a keyhole on her side, and she knew it to be locked from previous disappointing endeavors. Dare she try again? Which emotion would surface if she discovered the lock held as usual? Her pulse tripped at the suggestion the door could be unlocked, and so she laid her hand upon the brass and twisted, but it held securely.

  Perplexed, she folded her fingers around her newfound treasure and settled on the edge of the mattress once again. Had Dearing entered her room when she was otherwise occupied? Why? The notion struck her as oddly encouraging, and with the key held tight within her palm, she sent a hurried prayer upward. Perhaps things were changing for the better. Tonight at dinner, she would offer conversation as titillating as her musical ability and then—then she would flirt.

  * * *

  Dearing accepted his dinner jacket from his valet and dismissed the servant with a polite nod. Tonight, he intended to change the status of his marriage from cordial to personal and, soon after, intimate. The natural progression of things—courtship, affection, betrothal and wedding trip—had been cast aside for the sake of perception and appearance. Society might surmise the obvious terms, but Charlotte would be spared the whispers and critical eye of those who perpetuated gossip. He’d stepped in at the penultimate moment to rescue Elias Notley, Charlotte’s father, simultaneously sacrificing the subsequent advantage of knowing his wife beyond a congenial introduction. That was not to say he wasn’t besotted, but everything warranted urgent reconciliation. There existed no other way to secure her hand, salvage the Notleys’ financial security and remove Charlotte from the marriage mart before another gentleman learned of the crisis and charmed his way into the family. Now Dearing found himself in a struggle to gain ground due to his negligence.

  He wasn’t one to allow passion to eradicate logic and prided himself on his business acumen, controlled and concise, with the skill of razor-sharp negotiation. He possessed the visceral satisfaction of claiming Charlotte as his wife, though he hadn’t truly claimed her as of yet, and any thoughts of an intimate relationship were secondary to making amends within their marriage first.

  He tilted the cheval glass and combed his hair quickly, noting he needed to have it cut, the length overlapping his collar. Deep within his waistcoat pocket, t
he key to all misery lie hidden, and he refused to think of it this evening. He drew a deep breath and headed for the stairs, toward a new beginning. He had no plans to waste opportunity any longer.

  He found his wife in the drawing room near the hearth, and his breath caught at first sight of her silhouette, much like that evening all those months ago. Perhaps she too realized they stood at a dangerous precipice, a beginning or end, for her gown was more formal than he’d seen her wear. A beat of blame reminded him he could not boast of knowing her wardrobe, having squandered so many evenings away from home.

  “Good evening, milady.” He strode into the room, quickly closing the distance between them. “You look lovely.” And she did. He clenched his jaw with the realization of all the time he’d wasted. Could it be this simple? To compliment and converse, to ignore the past in hope of building a better future? A world of possibility tempted, slightly beyond reach. His fingers curled at his side. He itched to take her hand, but he didn’t want to misstep.

  “Thank you, milord.” She offered a slight smile and her eyes sparkled at his attention, luminous and brilliant in the firelight.

  “Sherry before dinner?” Reluctant to look away, he nodded toward the sideboard, where several crystal decanters stood in wait.

  “Yes.”

  Her answer sounded tentative. He could only guess she wondered at his unexpected attention. He spent a minute pouring her glass and a brandy for himself. With his back turned, he took a hearty swallow and refilled two fingers of liquor before he brought their glasses forward.

  “You play the pianoforte with masterful skill, Charlotte.” To hell with titles and formality. He’d originally intended to offer her time to adjust rather than be thrust into the organic intimacy shared between lovers, the luxury sacrificed when he’d swooped in and proposed the marriage contract with shrewd efficiency. But where had etiquette led? Down a narrow path with impenetrable, self-imposed walls erected in defense and fear. Walls that needed to be plundered and conquered. His grip tightened on his glass. Tonight, he would begin the siege.