by Georgie Lee
* * *
Warren pressed his fingertips into the hard piano case as Miss Domville stretched out one slender arm and stroked the top of the lustrous instrument. The gesture was reverent and suggestive and almost knocked him over. She wore a pale yellow gown with a contrasting blue cord tucked beneath her magnificent breasts. What he wouldn’t give to see her creamy skin against the dark wood and to elicit from her as much passion as she drew from the now-silent strings.
‘Care to join me for a walk?’ he asked, distracting himself from his wandering imagination yet again. This morning, after he’d heard her arrive, he hadn’t been able to focus on the new story until she’d finished a very long polonaise and one nocturne. Even then, it had taken all his effort not to wander to the door to watch her or to interrupt her playing with conversation until he’d completed at least one chapter.
‘I’m not sure your dog will let me go outside.’ She pulled one foot out from beneath the lounging canine and rolled her ankle. The hint of the slim calf clad in a semi-sheer stocking just above the top of her half boot made Warren’s need to move more pressing.
‘Lancelot likes you.’
‘It seems he isn’t the only one.’ Her flush of mirthful confidence was as teasing as it was meant to be off putting, especially when she rose and stepped over the dog, the hint of derrière beneath her dress drawing him along after her.
Warren hurried past her to pull open the arched door leading outside. The scent of warm earth combined with her peony perfume enveloped him as she slid past him into the daylight. The sun brightened the satin ribbons trimming her dress and made her hair glow like a halo around her face.
In two steps he was beside her while Lancelot trotted off to follow a scent. He shouldn’t be up from his desk, but taking advantage of their short time together to make progress. He’d found the inspiration for a new tale in one of his medieval manuscripts last night and, although it didn’t enthral him like Lady Matilda’s had, it offered the hope of his finishing something within a few weeks. He still had at least two more chapters to complete before his dinner at Lord Preston’s tonight. However, every flick of Miss Domville’s skirts above the toes of her boots, each subtle breath which met their exercise eroded his desire to go back inside.
‘Where’s your mother?’ she asked as she raised her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun. As she admired the stone house with its numerous jutting corners and stepped peeks, her fingers rested in a graceful arch above her brow, as enticing as when they’d stroked the Érard.
‘Sewing in her room.’ He pointed to a bay of windows on the second floor. ‘She can see us from there. I assure you it’s all very respectable.’
She tilted her head at him and pulled her lips into a disbelieving smile. ‘Nothing about this arrangement is respectable.’
‘But it is interesting,’ he prodded, the hint of red the chill brought to her full cheeks entrancing him.
‘That remains to be seen.’ She strolled off down the walk, as natural among the wildflowers as at the piano. The sun caressed her pale skin while her curls danced with each of her elegant steps. This was how he’d imagined her when he’d written his novel. Except then he’d met her stride, turned her to face him and tasted her full lips.
Stop it, he commanded himself. She was here to assist him, not to tempt him, but a man would have to be dead to avoid the allure of her stunning body.
Warren hurried to join her and, as they wandered around to the back of the house, he pointed out the repairs he’d made to the windows and plasterwork, trying not to think about the cost and how much was still to be done.
‘I’m glad you’ve left it as it is instead of knocking it down,’ she remarked as they reached the centre of the garden. She rolled her shoulders and the motion raised and lowered her chest, almost to the detriment of his rational mind.
‘I didn’t think you liked history,’ he answered with a grin to mask the more heady response coming from further down his torso.
Her blue eyes widened. ‘Who told you that?’
‘My mother. She said you told her you don’t care for historical novels.’
‘I don’t, especially after the last one I read.’ She shot him a teasing smile, then circled the stone sundial in the centre of the path.
‘Hopefully, my next one will change your mind.’ He plucked a stick off of the ground and flung it away for Lancelot to chase.
She ran one graceful finger up the edge of the sundial’s gnomon. ‘We’ll see.’
She turned and walked off down the path.
Warren rocked back on his heels before stepping forward to follow her. He thought he couldn’t work without her here. He was beginning to wonder if he could work with her here. He wasn’t writing now and another day was slipping away from him. Strangely enough, the lost time didn’t panic him as it had yesterday, or the many long days before. She fascinated him, as much as one of his characters, and as with them, he wanted to learn more about her.
‘Lady Ellington said you wrote compositions.’ He motioned her towards the cloister walk separating the somewhat orderly garden from the wild field beyond. Lancelot bolted off into the high grass, scaring up birds. ‘You should work on them while you’re here. This time is as much for you as it is for me.’
‘I’d rather not.’ She stopped and picked at a loose stone in one of the pillars. The sunlight cutting through the arches slid across the nape of her neck while the shadows caressed her straight nose and the downturned curve of her mouth. The wounded young lady beneath the confident woman revealed herself. She wasn’t as worldly as all her smiles and artifices tried to make him believe and he was glad. He’d seen enough worldliness during his time in the Navy. ‘Besides, they’re only silly little pieces, hardly worth anyone listening to.’
‘Don’t demean or dismiss your talent, but hold your head up high and speak with confidence,’ Warren encouraged, the way Leticia used to do with him. It disturbed him to see her think so little of herself as much as it had disturbed him to interrupt her playing.
‘You don’t understand.’
He leaned against one arched opening. ‘You think I don’t know how difficult it is to show your work to the world, to risk them laughing at it or telling you it isn’t good enough?’
‘You’re wrong, Sir Warren. I’ve spent a large portion of my life listening to people tell me I’m not good enough. Criticism of my compositions would pale in comparison.’
He pushed up from the wall to stand over her. The wind caught the curls dangling by her cheeks and made them tease the unblemished skin. He kept his arms by his side despite wanting to wrap her in them and ease the tension in her lips with his. With her brows knitted together, she barely resembled the woman who’d played the pianoforte with passion. ‘Don’t let them trouble you, Miss Domville.’
Her eyes met his and hope rippled through them like the cool breeze between the arches. Then it vanished and she took a large step away from him. ‘Why does it matter to you what bothers me and what doesn’t?’
‘Because you’re my friend and I hope to be yours.’
‘Friend? Is that what they call it?’ The teasing vixen he’d glimpsed from across the sundial appeared again. There was something false about it, as when his sister used to try on his mother’s dresses as a budding young lady and the gowns hadn’t fitted. This wasn’t the real Miss Domville, but the one meant to keep him at a distance.
‘You think you’re the only one who suffers alone, the only one afraid of being ridiculed?’
She raised her chin in defiance. ‘What do you know of ridicule? All of England adores you.’
‘And not one of them was there when I was simply Lieutenant Stevens and not Sir Warren,’ he said sharply, irked by her dismissal of his struggles. ‘Nor were they there after my first battle as a surgeon’s assistant when I staggered
up to the empty forecastle to retch overboard, afraid the grizzled old surgeon would catch me and have me drummed out for being so weak. I needed my naval surgical training to establish a practice once I was demobbed and I counted on my pay to keep my mother and sister from starving. My father hadn’t had the sense to pay off his debts or save enough to keep us, leaving it to me to do. There were no fans adoring me when I used to write every night, determined to make a living without cutting into men, even while the officers laughed at me and told me I’d never succeed. The only people who were there for me were my mother and sister and my own belief in my ability to pull myself out of hell.’
‘I—I’m sorry, I didn’t realise,’ she stammered, as stunned by his forceful words as he was. ‘I thought with your fame your troubles were behind you.’
‘They aren’t and in some ways they’ve increased.’ He pressed his fists against his hips and stared at the large scuff on the toe of his boot, working to rein in his irritation. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know the challenges he’d faced in achieving his goals. He’d rarely discussed them with anyone, so why the hell had he told her? He looked up at her. She stood as serene as a painting, except for her eyes. Uncertainty sharpened their blue and increased the guilt building inside him. He’d told her because, deep down, he sensed she’d understand and he wanted it as much as he did her inspiration. Her not walking away told him she did. ‘The problem with penning great novels is more are expected. My most ardent admirers, even my publisher, will abandon me if I don’t give them what they want.’
‘Then you should return to your study.’ A cloud passed over the sun, covering the garden in shadows followed by a chill breeze. She clasped her arms across her chest, bracing herself against a shiver. ‘Besides. I don’t play well when my fingers are numb.’
She hurried back to the house, stiffness marring the elegance of her gait as she retreated inside. He wanted to call her back, to resume their walk and the quiet conversation they’d enjoyed before his outburst, but he didn’t.
He strode across the cloister and swept a pile of leaves off the corner of an arch before turning and marching back to the other side. He should be glad she was pushing him away. She wasn’t here for him to pour out his old sorrows to like some heroine in one of his novels, but to help him work. Except he wasn’t at his desk, but pacing like a nervous animal.
He let off a sharp whistle to call Lancelot. The dog bounded up to him and the two of them made for inside. He didn’t need this distraction, or to have emotion drag him into yet another risk as Leticia’s memory had entangled him with Rupert. Steady industry, determination and perseverance were what he needed and nothing else, no matter how much Miss Domville irritated or captivated him.
* * *
Marianne closed the cover over the keys. Turner, the butler, had come in a few moments before to announce the arrival of Lady Ellington’s carriage. She hadn’t noticed how late it was until she’d looked up and seen the deepening shadows beneath the trees outside. She’d been hesitant to come here this morning. Now, she was reluctant to leave. She ran her fingers over the smooth case of the Érard. It was the piano she didn’t want to leave, or so she told herself.
After the walk in the garden, she’d rushed back here to her music, eager to lose herself in the peace of the instrument. Everything Sir Warren had said had struck a chord deep inside her, one she feared. In a much more forceful way than Lady Ellington, he’d urged her to not worry about the opinions of others and live her life as she wished. It was a wonderful idea and impractical. She’d defied everyone at Lady Cartwright’s to help Lady Ellington. Despite her noble motives, all it had done was garner more derision. She could well imagine how everyone would react if she suddenly decided to throw off all concerns for propriety and do as she pleased. They’d say she had at last proven she was no better than her mother.
From the adjoining room, she could hear the faint scratch of a pen nib across paper, the crackle of the fire and the even snoring of Lancelot. As she peered through the open door at the books lining the far wall, she wondered why everyone was suddenly so concerned with her being out in the world when all she wanted was to be left alone, except she was tired of being alone.
She slid off the bench and gathered up her reticule and made for the study. Even though she’d all but sneered at his past difficulties in the garden, the least she could do was bid him goodnight and thank him for a mostly pleasant day. She wasn’t likely to be welcomed back tomorrow. She should be glad—it would end the risk of them becoming the subject of country gossip—but she wasn’t. She wanted the chance to make amends for her misstep in the garden, even if she didn’t know how.
Lancelot rose from the hearthrug and trotted over to her when she entered the study. She stroked the dog lightly on the head as she cautiously approached the desk. ‘Goodnight, Sir Warren.’
He didn’t look up from where he sat hunched over his paper, but waved his left hand over his head. He continued writing with his right, his pen flowing over the paper except when he dipped it with flicking jabs in the inkwell. ‘Goodnight.’
Her chest tightened and she tried to tell herself his dismissal didn’t matter. People did it quite regularly and she didn’t care. She cared tonight because she deserved it. For all the times she’d wished for someone to see her as more than rumours, he had and she’d insulted him, then fled like a scared rabbit. No wonder he wasn’t eager to engage in more confidences or conversation.
‘Come, Miss Domville, I’ll see you out.’ Mrs Stevens startled Marianne with the stealth of her approach.
The defences she’d lowered to approach him were jerked up again. ‘Apparently, I’m no longer needed here.’
She followed Mrs Stevens out of the room and through the dimly lit front hall to the arched front door, trying not to regret leaving, or today.
‘Don’t be too hard on him. Warren gets in a mood when he’s in the midst of one of his stories. As rude as he might be, I’m glad he’s hard at work. It’s been too long since I last saw him so engrossed, not since before his sister—’ Her voice faded away, sadness draping her like it used to Mrs Nichols whenever a student succumbed to fever. Then it was gone, replaced by her always charming smile. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t mean any insult by it.’
‘I’m not insulted at all.’ She wanted to believe it was him and not her, but it was hard. He’d treated her with kindness and respect and she hadn’t extended him the same courtesy. Maybe she was as unworthy of it as so many believed. ‘I too dislike being interrupted when I’m composing.’
They left the warmth of the entrance hall and stepped out on to the chilly drive. The sun was low in the west and the shadow of the house fell hard over Lady Ellington’s maroon-lacquered coach waiting to take Marianne home.
‘I’m glad you understand. Thank you again for coming. Your help means a great deal to Warren and me.’
Mrs Stevens gave Marianne’s arm a motherly squeeze and Marianne forced herself not to pull back. Relief filled her when Mrs Stevens let go.
Marianne climbed inside the carriage and settled into the seat as it pulled away. So many times, being alone in the vehicle after a trying encounter had been a relief, but not today. Her reaction to the kind woman’s touch shamed her as much as her behaviour with Sir Warren. In the garden, when Sir Warren had spoken to her of his past and his pain, it was as if he’d seen inside her to the doubts she tried to hide. It unsettled her how quickly he could sympathise with her. This, as much as him standing over her in the cloister, his green eyes as dark as fine velvet, his chest so close to hers she could have laid her cheek on it, had sent her running back to the pianoforte.
No, he doesn’t want my affection, but to be my friend.
He’d said as much and proven it with his willingness to confide in her once again. Instead of accepting it, she’d scoffed at it and pushed him away. It was difficult not to.
She’d been betrayed too many times by people who should have cared for her to give her faith so easily.
It had been a mistake to let people’s past failings influence her now. Lady Ellington was right, she needed more acquaintances her age. It would only happen if she worked to overcome her reservations to cultivate friends, instead of hiding away from them, as she’d begun to do with Theresa. Sir Warren might not be the answer to all her troubles, but he might be the beginning of the change she’d desperately sought for years. He could lead her to other people who didn’t judge her and a life different from the lonely one encompassing her. Like his mother, he’d reached out to her. It was time for her to accept it and his friendship. If she dared to venture back here tomorrow, if he still wanted her to, she would.
* * *
The gentlemen and ladies gathered in Lord Preston’s sitting room applauded as Warren finished reading the first chapter from his last book aloud. He bowed under their admiration, thinking he looked more like the trained elephant he’d seen in India than an accomplished writer. He craved the quiet of Priorton, but soirées like this were part of his fame and crucial to garnering more readers who could influence society in his favour. These people purchased his stories, promoted his work and some day, when he at last had enough money to think of a family, their children would be his children’s companions.
‘Well done, Sir Warren,’ Lord Preston commended as he shook Warren’s hand with his palsied one. ‘I’ve often thought of writing. Perhaps I could give you my story and you could write it for me.’
‘I couldn’t do it justice, Lord Preston,’ Warren answered through a stiff smile, holding back a groan. For all his fame, lands and new title, the difference between Warren and his aristocratic patrons was notable. They admired his novels, but couldn’t fathom the hard work it took to write them and achieve everything they possessed by luck of birth.
‘You were magnificent, Sir Warren.’ The young Lady Preston, with her dark hair and conniving eyes, stood at her elderly husband’s elbow, practically licking her wide lips in anticipation of devouring Warren. He knew what she was after and it wasn’t his literary flourish. ‘Sir Warren, you must be thirsty after so much reading.’