Prelude for a Lord

by Elliot, Camille

  After she had positioned his fingers, she was about to remove her hands when he suddenly took hold of them. His palm felt hot against her cooled fingertips. He tugged, and she leaned closer.

  Then his warm palm was on the skin of her neck, just over her racing pulse, just as his mouth touched hers.

  He did not kiss her as desperately as he had the night of the concert. At first, his lips moved softly, as if hesitant to touch, to taste. Then he pressed closer, and she felt as if he had pressed her against his soul. His kiss was like the comforting wood of her violin, like Calandra’s touch on her head, like the scent of a rose in summer, like the sweetness of a trembling violin note. He felt like home.

  She had fallen in love with him.

  The thought frightened her, sent her heartbeat galloping. Or perhaps that was because his hand cupped her cheek, her jaw, while the other buried itself in her hair.

  She had thought she would never meet a man deserving of her trust. But this man had shown his concern for her safety, his love for his sister, his passion in music, his courage in danger. He had shown his own stubbornness, his own flaws, his willingness to argue with her, his ability to apologize. He was not perfect. He was Dommick.

  She loved him. She never wanted to leave him. She would give all she possessed if only to be with him.

  It was just as she realized this, just as she was pressing closer to him, that he suddenly stiffened. His hands left her face, her hair. He drew back, looking down at her with a mix of longing and unhappiness.

  What did it mean? He didn’t seem the sort of man to blithely steal kisses. Yet he wasn’t looking at her as a lover might. He had said nothing of his feelings.

  And what of her feelings? What of her determination not to marry, her plans for Italy, her love for Lucy? What of her love for music that had motivated her for so much of her life?

  She pulled away and shot to her feet. She didn’t like the look in his eyes, and she was afraid of the words that would arise out of his conflicted feelings. They would be more wounding than the words other men had inflicted upon her, because these words would come from Dommick.

  “I must go,” she said.

  “Alethea—”

  “Say nothing,” she said fiercely. “I have no wish to hear it. I could not bear . . .” She took a breath to try to calm herself. “We may both say things we will later regret.”

  He rose to his feet now, his eyes burning into hers. There was confusion, and still that yearning, that pain, that terror in his eyes. She did not know what to make of it all, and it cut her to the quick.

  She turned and walked away before the tears began to fall.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Alethea could not avoid the visit any longer. She should have gone yesterday, but she had been too troubled by what had happened with Dommick to be able to speak rationally to any creature. She had pleaded a headache and asked for a dinner tray in her room, which she had devoured. She’d then shocked the maid by requesting an extra serving of dessert.

  The poets who waxed eloquent upon the starvation of love were full of rot.

  This morning she dabbed her eyes with water so they didn’t look quite so much like two welts on her face, but she had eaten early to escape the rest of the house, and now she wore her closest bonnet to shade her countenance. She went upstairs to the schoolroom where Margaret was picking sulkily at the remains of her breakfast. Alethea removed her from her half-eaten toast and cold tea with difficulty.

  “You look terrible,” Margaret said nastily as they walked to the rectory.

  “Since I must speak to the rector’s wife about your behaviour with her daughters, is it any wonder? Or should I have left you to speak to the rector’s wife?”

  Margaret’s first reaction was excitement at the prospect, but as she imagined the tenor of the conversation, she grew sullen again. “I suppose not.”

  “Have you meditated upon my advice to you yesterday?”

  Margaret kicked at a stone on the path.

  Alethea continued, “It might help you to understand Maria and Louisa better. And if it does not, then you shall use the opportunity to learn to be polite.”

  “I am polite.”

  “Polite behaviour is responding indifferently to what we do not like.”

  “Why must I be polite to them?”

  “Why must you play with them?”

  Margaret knotted the strings on her bonnet. “There aren’t any other girls to play with. The squire’s boys are very stupid.”

  “Then if you will choose the girls’ company, you must learn to be polite.”

  Margaret heaved a sigh, but her sullen expression softened. Alethea hoped she had made some progress toward mutual felicity between the two houses.

  The rectory was a snug cottage but rather bleak in the flower gardens, as it appeared Mrs. Coon was not a great gardener. As Alethea and Margaret walked up the path to the front door, the squire’s wife was just departing.

  “Mrs. Coon, Lord bless you for sending your maid to us with the squire ailing so,” the woman said.

  “I should come myself if I could,” Mrs. Coon said. “Do let us know if there is aught else we may do to assist you.” Her eyes alighted on Alethea and Margaret, and although Alethea had expected some exasperation upon seeing Margaret, she instead smiled broadly and invited them inside.

  “You will pardon the dirty tea things,” she said cheerfully, “but the squire’s wife has been here for the past hour. Poor woman, her husband has a horrid cough. Indeed, he had a horrid cough last month.” She frowned and tilted her head at the thought. “The man gets them curiously often.”

  “We have certainly not arrived for tea, Mrs. Coon. Margaret wishes to apologize to your daughters.”

  “As to that, they wish to apologize to her.”

  “Whatever for?” Alethea did not miss the fleeting look of satisfaction on Margaret’s face and gave her arm a discreet pinch. The girl winced, and her look of long-suffering returned.

  “Apparently Maria had made an inappropriate comment about Margaret’s deceased parents, which was what precipitated the altercation.” Mrs. Coon sat on the settee, and Margaret and Alethea took the sofa opposite.

  “I told you—” Margaret whispered to Alethea, but she stepped on her young cousin’s foot to silence her.

  Mrs. Coon continued as if she had not heard. “I have spoken most severely with her on the matter.”

  “Be that as it may, Margaret should not have responded so,” Alethea said.

  “The girls are out back, helping the old gardener with the vegetables. Mr. Coon really should pension the poor man off, for he can barely keep up the kitchen garden and I am no gardener, but we don’t have the heart to do it to him. Margaret, you may join the girls in their toils or inform them that they are allowed a reprieve.”

  Margaret bounded up, but Alethea grabbed her wrist and ventured to Mrs. Coon, “Is that altogether wise?”

  “Fear not, Lady Alethea. I have instructed the girls in what they should say and do. For this afternoon, at least,” she qualified.

  Alethea said to Margaret, “I expect you to apologize, miss.”

  “Yes, Alethea.” And Margaret was gone in a swirl of skirts.

  “With willful girls, Lady Alethea, allow me to guide you, as I possess two of them.” Mrs. Coon smiled. “Instruct them in proper behaviour and then allow them to find their own way. If you dictate to them, they will invariably do the opposite.”

  Alethea squirmed on the sofa, reminded of her own childhood. “I see your point.”

  Mrs. Coon sighed. “I admit I have been indulgent to Maria and Louisa for several weeks. I believe I know the cause of the girls’ rude behaviour toward Margaret.”

  “I assure you, Margaret is not blameless. She misunderstands their comments and responds inappropriately.”

  “But of course she would misunderstand when she doesn’t know what has occurred recently. You see, Lady Alethea, the girls’ playmate, Daphne, died quite sud
denly two months ago.”

  Alethea drew in a breath. “How tragic.”

  “Daphne was a retiring creature, sweet and helpful. The girls were devastated. I assure you, the fight yesterday was unwonted behaviour from them. They have been combative not only with Margaret but with other children in the neighborhood since Daphne died. After the fight yesterday, I suspected that my girls were still grieving for their friend. When I forced Maria and Louisa to repeat the conversation prior to the exchange, it appeared to me they were attempting to mould Margaret into Daphne’s role.”

  “Which Margaret would not take kindly to. She is very willful.”

  “The three of them are peas in a pod, I am afraid. I spoke to them about Daphne and their behaviour toward Margaret, and the girls were truly contrite, especially after they had spent some time in prayer.”

  Alethea could not understand how prayer would benefit a ten-and a thirteen-year-old girl. When Alethea had been Margaret’s age, prayer had been a chore and opportunity to consider where she would ride her horse after service ended.

  Mrs. Coon laughed. “I see you are not convinced. Here is another piece of advice for the raising of willful girls. Nothing you could say would have greater impact than the Lord convicting their hearts. They will obey you out of principle, but they would obey God out of true feeling.”

  Still doubtful, Alethea said, “Margaret mentioned that you had spoken to her about God speaking to our hearts and guiding us in doing what is right.”

  “Then let us hope that Margaret will also listen to God. You smile, Lady Alethea.”

  “In my experience, that is not what people will most often do.”

  “No, it is not,” Mrs. Coon said candidly. “But in those cases, we must allow God to comfort us in our troubles.”

  The words were what the Trittonstone Park clergyman had preached at the pulpit, a tired intonation of the trite and hackneyed. Yet Mrs. Coon’s expression was far more discerning and kind than any clergyman Alethea had known, and from her lips, the words had a stronger, deeper meaning.

  But Alethea’s spirit wrangled with the notion. Where had God been when her brother hurt her? Why had God taken Calandra just when Alethea needed her most? Why had God allowed Wilfred to kick her out of her home? Why would she desire comfort from such a God?

  “We most often base our experience with God upon the actions of others. But you must not mistake human frailty for divine relationship,” Mrs. Coon said.

  “Divine relationship? I do not comprehend.”

  “God’s love for us.”

  “Oh.” Yes, the parson had preached of God’s love, but it had always been a vague thing that had to do with words such as salvation and sanctification and justification.

  “I beg your pardon.” Mrs. Coon rang the bell, and the maid removed the old tea things. “Fresh tea, please, Daisy.”

  “There is no need.”

  “Of course there is a need. While you remain here, the girls will not dare descend to bickering or, worse, fisticuffs.” Mrs. Coon winked.

  “I am mortified by Margaret’s behaviour. She has not responded well to discipline in this matter. Speaking to her, scolding her, punishing her have all come to naught.”

  “I have raised many children. Maria and Louisa are my youngest of seven. So you may trust my advice in this matter. If you discipline with love, Margaret will respond to that. We all only want someone to love us.”

  Who had ever loved Alethea besides Calandra and Lucy? Would Dommick be able to love her? She shied from that thought.

  Yes, Alethea could say she loved Margaret. She, who had never wanted children. She had felt so ashamed of who she was, assuming something was wrong with her for not desiring a family. But her bias had been because she had never found a man whom she would consider for the candidate of father and husband.

  Until Dommick.

  But in caring for Margaret, she had changed, and she could now see the possibility of having her own family, if she found a man whom she could love. Who would love her.

  Her solitary life felt desolate. Her violin and her sister used to comfort her, but that was before she had done the foolish business of falling in love.

  Could Dommick love her?

  Dare she find out?

  He was a cad. A fool.

  Bayard stood at his study window looking at the courtyard garden, grey and brown beneath the heavy clouds. Beyond them lay the square pool and the grassy terraced areas of the Great Garden where Margaret was running, her cloak long discarded, her brown curls flying behind her. Slower but no less exuberant, Alethea gave chase, her dark hair falling loose from its pins and tumbling down her shoulders.

  He could not condemn a woman with such a love of life to living with a man in his condition. He could not expose her to his constant fear.

  He was a coward. Alethea would not treat him as his former betrothed had done, and yet he feared what her reaction would be if she discovered the truth, the horror, the ugliness, the utter monstrosities in his mind. He could not even face them himself.

  All the men in her life had only hurt her. He could not do that to her as well.

  He had been happy yesterday by the stream, playing reed pipes. What other woman would delight in something so simple? What other woman would revel in the musical challenge of the duets? What other woman could have stirred him to forget his scruples and kiss her the way he knew he should not? But the music, her voice, her touch had been like awakening from a nightmare, a sunlit day from a stormy night. He wanted that awakening, that sunlight. He wanted Alethea.

  He could never have her. He could never have any woman while he was . . . like this.

  A tap at the study door, and then his butler, Forrow, appeared. “My lord, Lady Whittlesby has arrived and wishes to speak to you.”

  Here? Now? Before he could speak, the lady pushed past Forrow. The butler withdrew and closed the study door.

  “Lady Whittlesby, my mother—”

  “I have not come to speak to your mother, but to you.” Her carriage dress brushed the Turkish carpet as she sat in the solid oak chair before the desk.

  “May I ring for tea?”

  “No, I shan’t be a few minutes. I have stopped while on my way to London.” She thumped her palm against the heavy armrest of the chair. “What is this I hear of Miss Terralton’s kidnapping?”

  He stiffened. How had the news been spread abroad? “I am grieved that it has reached so many ears,” he said slowly.

  “Oh, don’t get into a bother, it’s a well-kept secret. Everyone is tittering about the maid running off with a footpad, who attacked two footmen, or some such nonsense.”

  “How did you hear of it?”

  “I did not. I guessed. My groom happened to mention that on the night of the concert, he saw a hired hack pull up before Ravenhurst’s home, and the two women who emerged looked remarkably like Lady Alethea and Miss Terralton, although rather disheveled. I recalled I had been speaking to Lady Alethea at that moment and knew it could not have been her. But later I remembered that when I stopped Miss Terralton on Milsom Street the other day, I had noticed her maid because of her striking resemblance to Lady Alethea. When I heard the wild stories, I pieced the information together. Miss Terralton is well?”

  “She is.”

  “Why was she taken? Ransom?”

  “No.” Bayard did not want to say more, but Lady Whittlesby heaved an exasperated sigh.

  “I have puzzled out this much, Dommick, so you may as well tell me the rest.”

  He supposed Lady Whittlesby had some right to know since she had involved herself in Alethea’s violin. “The kidnappers were working for a man who wanted Lady Alethea, not Clare. They mistook the maid for Alethea and took Clare since she was with her.”

  “But Lady Alethea’s dowry is not . . .” Lady Whittlesby gasped. “Never say it is because of her violin? I never would have suspected the threat to be so violent.”

  “I thought it safest to remove them all here, to
Terralton Abbey.”

  Lady Whittlesby leaned forward. “I assure you, Dommick, I had no idea my request would put your family or Lady Alethea in danger.”

  “I am working to discover who is pursuing Lady Alethea’s violin, but I have nothing definitive for you.”

  Lady Whittlesby sat back in the chair. “After the concert, had you not left Bath so precipitously, I would have told you that I was sufficiently impressed by Miss Terralton’s performance and the renewed Quartet. I have decided to feature you all in my concert this spring, regardless of your inquiries into Lady Alethea’s violin.” She gave him a pleased smile.

  But Bayard could not return it. London now seemed full of dangers and menace. Alethea was safer here, at Terralton. She would probably say he did not have the right to be concerned for her, but he was determined not to be like the other men in her life who’d had no care for her at all.

  He spared a pang for Clare and his mother. He had agreed to Lady Whittlesby’s scheme for their sakes, but he would hope they would agree that Alethea’s safety precluded a brilliant social opportunity.

  Lady Whittlesby’s smile faded, and she gave him a piercing look. “You do not seem pleased.”

  “London is too dangerous for Lady Alethea until I can uncover who is threatening her life.”

  “Do you intend to hold her hostage here?”

  Alethea would kill him. “If need be, until the danger is dissipated.”

  “But think of the opportunity for your sister.”

  “If something dreadful happened to Lady Alethea for the sake of a debut season, what would that say about me as a man?”

  Lady Whittlesby was silent. She looked disgruntled, but there were also traces of respect.

  “I apologize for disappointing you, but it would better serve you to engage Mr. Kinnier.”

  “Mr. Kinnier does not have the Quartet’s flare or Miss Terralton’s pretty charm,” Lady Whittlesby groused. “However, I quite see your point. I shall not press you further.” She stood. “Should you change your mind, you have until the beginning of the new year.”