by Georgie Lee
She snatched Warren away from her husband and escorted him to the refreshment table at the back of the room, throwing her watching friends a haughty smile of triumph. Warren struggled to maintain his cheerful and deferential mood. This wasn’t the first time a bored wife had tried to snare him and notoriety among her friends. Warren wasn’t interested in becoming her prized catch.
‘Try one of these, they’re heavenly.’ With slender fingers she plucked a pink pastry from a silver tray and held it up to Warren. ‘Should you wish to savour one of my delicacies, it’s easy to arrange. I could do a great deal for your career, especially among the ladies of London.’
Warren avoided her attempts to slide the treat into his mouth by taking it from her. ‘I’m flattered, Lady Preston, but I don’t sail my host’s schooner, if you take my meaning.’
Lady Preston stared at him as if she couldn’t decide whether to be angry or embarrassed. It didn’t matter. Warren nodded to her, then strode away, leaving the woman to return to her friends without her conquest. He’d never seduced a woman as a means to increase his fame or profits and he wouldn’t do so now, no matter how much he needed money. Lord Byron he was not, as Miss Domville was not Lady Preston.
He flicked a glance at Lady Preston who stood clucking with her friends, her eyes as sharp as broken glass as she viewed him with the hate of disappointed plans. Miss Domville had been torn apart too many times by women like Lady Preston to be like them. Instead she was original and innocent despite all her worldly experience. She didn’t blatantly flaunt her more sensual charms as Lady Preston did, but kept them reserved. It was her opinions she needed to keep to herself.
Warren returned to the men and their discussion of hunting. He struggled to focus on where the best shooting was to be found because all he could think about was his conversation in the garden with Miss Domville. While other ladies drooled over him, she was at times contemptuous. He was Sir Warren to her and nothing more, as she’d proved today when she’d walked away from him. After the return to the house, he’d considered ending the arrangement, more vexed than inspired by their encounter, until she’d started to play. For the first time in too long, the words hadn’t just come to him while he’d listened, but the depth of feeling for his characters, the passion which used to grip him in the centre of each story, had returned. He’d run mad with it, as he and the other sailors used to do in port cities when they went ashore. Even while the ground had still rocked beneath their feet they’d praised and revelled in the solid land. He’d done the same with his novel. As much as Miss Domville had irritated him, she’d also inspired him once again.
‘Gathering wool, Sir Warren?’ Lord Preston chuckled. ‘Which would be well advised considering Priorton isn’t earning as it should, or so I understand.’
‘The previous owner didn’t manage it well which is why he was forced to sell it. I assure you, it will be one of the finest estates in the county under my management,’ Warren boasted, throwing out his chest to match the surety of any titled man, refusing to allow them to belittle him or the property he’d worked so hard to acquire.
‘Not too fine for a purchased estate, I hope,’ the rotund Lord Astley drawled in his none-too-subtle reference to Warren’s humble background.
Warren riveted his superior with a look as sharp as a scalpel. ‘The finest.’
He was sure of it. With Miss Domville playing for him, he’d continue to write like he had today and soon there’d be another great sensation from Sir Warren Stevens, and all Lord Preston’s and Lord Astley’s doubts about him would be conquered, as well as his own.
Assuming Miss Domville returned to Priorton tomorrow.
Warren plucked a glass of port off the tray of a passing footman and took a deep drink. He’d been heavy handed in his insistence she stand up to the bullies in society and he couldn’t blame her for snapping back at him. She probably resented his prodding as he did all the story ideas he received from well-meaning readers. He hoped it hadn’t cost him their arrangement. He needed her as much as he’d needed Leticia in the days before his first book had been published. He’d been as certain it would be a flop as Miss Domville was convinced she’d always be a social outcast. Leticia, through her letters, had helped Warren to see he was wrong. He wanted to do the same for Miss Domville and he would if she gave him another chance.
Chapter Six
Marianne brought the étude to a thundering close, holding down the Érard’s ivory keys until the ringing notes faded away.
‘Is that one of your compositions?’ Sir Warren applauded as he approached. The fall of his feet on the wooden floor was as melodious as a well-played drum and the sound of it tripped through her as powerfully as his voice.
His welcome eased the tension which had marred her playing since her arrival. This morning, when no note had come to Welton Place cancelling their engagement, she’d set out for Priorton wondering what she’d find. She was glad to see him smile at her as if their tiff in the garden had never happened. Without thinking, she returned it.
‘No, Sir Warren, it’s Schubert.’ She’d considered bringing the composition book as a kind of peace offering, but at the last minute she’d changed her mind. Every heartbreak, fear and sense of loss echoed in each note in the book. She wasn’t about to allow him to hear it. Despite what she’d told him about Madame de Badeau, there were limits to how many confidences she intended to share with him.
‘Please, call me Warren.’ He sat down on the bench beside her, his nearness more unsettling than an out-of-tune instrument.
She shifted her hips, ready to slide away before she stopped herself. He was tempting her into confidences again and she was wary of intimacy. She’d allowed herself to grow close to the Smiths and they’d made her regret it. It remained to be seen if Warren would do the same, but there was no way to find out without keeping her promise to accept his friendship and take the risk. ‘And you must call me Marianne.’
‘A very pretty name.’
‘A common one in France.’ She shrugged, trying to shake off the delight of his compliment, but he wouldn’t allow it.
‘It’s still pretty.’
She started another tune, a soft one which allowed her to focus on the keys and the pedal instead of him watching her. She expected him to return to his writing, but he remained beside her, listening. She glanced up at him. He offered her a pleasant smile which made her duck back into the music, afraid to stumble through the notes.
‘Who taught you to play?’ he asked in a soft voice which mingled with the melody more than it interrupted it.
‘Piano lessons were required at the Protestant School in France where I was raised, but once Mrs Nichols, the headmistress, noticed I had a gift for it, she spent more time with me.’ For all Marianne’s happy memories of the hours at the keyboard with Mrs Nichols, she couldn’t forget the long nights in the dormitory. The girls used to taunt her about her lack of a mother. They’d been jealous of the extra time Mrs Nichols had spent with her, unable to see how blessed they were to have parents who cared about them. Back then they’d merely thought of Madame de Badeau as her scandalous and distant sister. They would have crucified her if they’d learned the truth. ‘Once we had a recital for the parents. I was seven and I played the most important piece.’ She played a few notes. The pride of having performed it for the crowd of gentlemen and ladies filling her before it faded. ‘I was the only girl who had no family in attendance.’
She slid her hands off the keys, wondering why she’d told him such a thing. He didn’t need to know.
‘I’m sorry.’ His condolence wasn’t flippant but heartfelt and the tenderness of it wrapped around her like a warm pelisse. The old memory didn’t seem so cold in his presence.
‘It doesn’t matter, I’ve all but forgotten it,’ she lied.
He scrutinised her as though he didn’t believe her, but did
n’t debate the matter. Instead, he spread out his fingers over the keys and began an old tune she remembered from France.
‘You play?’ she asked, astonished.
‘No, my sister made me learn this duet a long time ago so we could perform it together.’ He continued to struggle through the tune, his ink-stained fingers awkward on the keys. ‘It’s the only one I know. As you can see, I’m not very good at it.’
‘You’re doing quite well.’ She joined in, taking the high octaves while he did the low ones. ‘It’s been years since I’ve played this.’
After she’d left France she’d stopped learning duets. There’d been no one to play them with.
Warren focused on the keys as he played, some of them still warm from Marianne’s touch. He missed more notes than he struck and she slowed her playing to give him time to draw out the old tune from his memory. All the while he was aware of Marianne next to him, her hands coming close to his as the music drew them together.
From the corner of his eye he caught her watching him. She wore a pale pink gown, the neck high as always, but it wasn’t her figure which captured him, but the lightness in her blue eyes. While they played the suspicious, wary young lady vanished, replaced by a vibrant, excited one.
‘I spent hours practising this with Leticia,’ he explained, ‘the whole time wanting to be outside running with the boys from my father’s vicarage school. It was his dream, a chance to make something of himself, though he never managed to make much of the school.’
‘How very unfortunate,’ she sympathised, her playing and compassion effortless.
‘For all of us. The debt from it sunk us after he died. It’s why I work so hard. I won’t ever be in so precarious a situation again.’ Warren plucked at the keys, irritation making his fingers jerky before he settled it. He intended to enjoy this time with her, not wail about the past or be pulled down by his current troubles. He’d made some mistakes this year with Priorton and it had been compounded by his inability to write, but the risk to his solvency would soon pass. With Marianne here he was already creating and would soon be as productive as before.
They continued the piece, their pace increasing as the old motions came back to him. During one lively section, her arm brushed against his and he missed the next note, then stumbled over a few more before regaining his rhythm. She didn’t wince or bang the keys in frustration, demanding they start again like Leticia used to do. Instead she waited for him to catch up to her.
‘Does your sister still play?’ Miss Domville asked, the innocent question tearing him like splinters from a shattered mast.
‘No, she died over a year ago.’ He choked down the hopelessness which had filled him when he’d left his sister’s room, forced to admit his defeat.
‘I’m sorry.’ She stopped playing to lay one hand over his, the touch as light as sea spray but much warmer.
He stilled beneath her and stared at her pale skin against his. The same calm she’d inspired in him at Lady Cartwright’s filled him again. It, and her fresh peony scent, stretched out to envelop him and drive away the cold memories like the sun does the clouds after a storm. No woman had ever had such a powerful effect on him and it troubled him. Things were complicated enough at present without throwing a woman into it, but he couldn’t push her or her soothing presence away.
He slid his hand out from under hers and rested it on his thigh. The awkwardness of their nearness which had dissolved during the duet returned. He should let it be, encourage it and the aloofness which was a basic tenet of their agreement, but it ate at him as much as his old troubles. She’d comforted him and he wished he could give her the same relief from her troubles, help her as she was helping him. Beneath his hand, the ivory keys spread out in either direction and gave him an idea. ‘Have you ever considered performing your compositions for others?’
She began to play a quiet piece, her lips curling up in a sarcastic grimace. ‘I can see the advert now. The notorious sister of Madame de Badeau plays the pianoforte. It’ll draw a larger crowd than the Elgin Marbles.’
‘What about simply publishing them? You could become a famous author, like me.’ He winked at her.
‘Maybe then I can carouse with the Prince and gain a baronetcy too.’
He trilled his fingers on his leg, wanting to shoot back and tell her it was hard work which had earned him his title and nothing else, but the sideways smile she pinned him with silenced him. She was teasing him, not insulting him, and he enjoyed it as much as the sparkle of her eyes beneath her long lashes.
‘If the Prince handed out titles solely based on men carousing with him, the House of Lords would be overflowing with newly ennobled men.’
‘And their wives and lovers too.’ She laughed, the sound as beautiful as her playing. For the second time today she’d surrendered to emotion instead of trying to hide it behind her wary distrust of everyone and everything. He wanted to see more of this impetuous woman, but as fast as she’d allowed the slip, she covered it again. ‘It’s a generous offer, Warren, but I’ve found the less notoriety, the better. While you may crave fame, I want nothing but to be ignored.’
It wasn’t true and they both knew it, but he said nothing. It was her scandals she wanted ignored. She craved attention from people who would treat her well, the way he wished to treat her. ‘You could write under a pseudonym. It’s done all the time.’
‘No. Despite what anyone thinks of the work, if they happen to learn it’s by me, they’ll shun it.’
‘The world is much bigger than London. I assure you, there are musicians in Vienna who care nothing about the ton’s gossip, and people in England who have more to consider than your past.’
‘You haven’t even heard my pieces. They could be awful.’
‘Coming from someone with such a genuine love of music, I doubt it. Of course, you could always play them for me so I could be certain.’
She didn’t answer, but stopped playing and went silent as though he’d asked her to reveal her darkest secrets, which in a way he had. He silently urged her to overcome her hesitation as she had at the Cartwrights’ when she’d refused to allow the ladies’ insults to deter her from helping her friend. He didn’t want those same women hindering her dream, or her faith in herself like all the laughing sailors and officers had tried to do with him.
‘Let’s assume your compositions are magnificent,’ he continued as her silence stretched out. She hadn’t refused him, but she hadn’t agreed either. ‘I can show them to my publisher and convince him to print them. I’ll lend you the strength of my name, which is something I haven’t done for even my brother-in-law.’
‘Why?’ She eyed him like an apple on a cart, wondering if there were worms beneath the red flesh. This wasn’t how he wanted her to regard him and some day he would see to it she didn’t.
‘Because ten years ago Mr Berkshire took a chance on me and it made all the difference. I want to do the same for you. You don’t have to decide anything today, but please consider it.’ Warren didn’t want to press her as he had yesterday and send her fleeing, or rejecting his offer outright. ‘Publishing would give you something more to do than locking yourself away at Lady Ellington’s. A real purpose.’
She opened her full lips, ready to answer when a voice from the door silenced her.
‘There you two are,’ Warren’s mother observed as she bustled into the room.
Marianne moved away from Warren as if he was an uncoiling anchor rope about to catch her leg and drag her down. He wasn’t so fast to pull away. ‘Miss Domville, Lady Ellington sent the carriage early for you today.’
‘The Girls’ School meeting. I almost forgot.’ Marianne bounded from the bench and gathered up her reticule and pelisse like a pupil late for class. The quickness of her movements gave her a youthfulness Warren admired. It was so different from the cautious seriousness which
usually stalked her.
‘When I didn’t hear music, I thought you’d gone to the garden,’ his mother mentioned as she and Warren led Marianne to the waiting carriage.
‘Doesn’t your room have a view of it?’ Marianne asked, casting suspicious eyes on Warren.
‘Yes, but it isn’t a very good one,’ Warren’s mother answered, not a party to Warren’s small lie from yesterday.
The truth exposed, he ignored the chiding glance from his muse.
They reached the carriage where the footman held open the door. Warren followed Marianne forward to the vehicle while his mother remained behind.
‘Think about what I offered.’ Warren held out his hand to Marianne, ready to help her into the carriage. She stared at it, not as quick to take it as she’d been to comfort him inside. He was about to withdraw his and allow the footman to assist her when she reached out and laid her palm against his. The pressure was light and heady and he curled his fingers to capture hers. Beneath the whinny of the horse, he heard her subtle intake of breath as he bowed over the delicate skin, noting a small freckle near her thumb, tempted to press his lips to it, but he couldn’t, not with his mother watching. He straightened to find her staring at him as though he’d suggested he climb in the conveyance with her. He would have if she’d invited him.
She let go and dipped inside. The footman closed the door, then took his place on the back. Warren waited for Marianne to appear at the window, but she remained hidden by the shiny side of the carriage as it set off down the drive, kicking up a small cloud of dust behind it.
‘You interrupted us,’ Warren muttered to his mother, more irritated than grateful as she stepped forward to join him.
‘I wouldn’t be a very good chaperon if I hadn’t.’