by Georgie Lee
* * *
After a lengthy programme, the woman sang her final song. The guests clapped, the sound muffled by gloves and the bored uninterest of the men.
Lady Astley rose and, as was her custom, invited others to play. A few of the older gentlemen grumbled, but were silenced by their wives. The ladies found it preferable to listen to amateurs than to trudge home to another dark evening with family around the fire.
Miss Cartwright was the first to take up the invitation. Her eagerness to play had more to do with displaying her talents to any eligible gentleman than to amuse the guests. For all Miss Cartwright’s other faults, her playing wasn’t one of them. She executed a concerto with admirable skill instead of the painful pickings of so many other country ladies.
At the end, Miss Cartwright stood and curtsied to the crowd.
‘You should play,’ Warren whispered, the caress of his words across her shoulders as startling as his suggestion. ‘Give them something else to talk about beside tired old rumours or the new ones they’re inventing.’
‘No, they don’t deserve to hear it.’ It had taken enough courage to come here in the low-cut gown. She wasn’t going to waste what remained of it to play for these ingrates.
‘Does anyone else wish to play?’ Lady Astley asked her guests.
‘Yes, Miss Domville.’ Warren rose, giving everyone a genuine reason to finally turn around and look at them. He held out his hand to Marianne and she wanted to smack it away. How dare he make a spectacle of her after she’d told him she wouldn’t play? Her music wasn’t for these people, but for her and him.
Lady Astley exchanged a desperate look with Lady Cartwright as if hoping her friend might offer a suitably polite but firm refusal of Warren’s suggestion.
He didn’t give her the chance. ‘Come, Miss Domville. The instrument awaits.’
His encouragement gave her strength. He wasn’t doing this to humiliate her, but because he believed in her and her talent. He’d told her before he’d lend her the strength of his name, to stand beside her when she at last decided to make public her talent and he was keeping his word. It was time for her to be courageous and worthy of his faith in her and at last stand up to these people. She’d knock them out of their seats with her talent and prove she was more than they believed her to be.
She placed her hand in his, rose and went with him out of the row. She held her head high as Warren escorted her up the aisle between the chairs to the pianoforte. He stopped before the instrument and let go of her as she came around the bench. The turn made the blue silk of her dress flutter around her legs before she tucked it beneath her to sit. Whispers and the shuffle of feet against the hardwood floor filled the air above the audience as Marianne prepared to play. Warren didn’t return to his seat, but stepped to the far end of the piano, his presence bolstering her confidence. She focused on him as she began, forgetting everyone else.
* * *
Beyond the pianoforte, the audience’s expressions changed from scowling disapproval to slack-jawed astonishment. Warren hoped those moved by Marianne’s music would be less inclined to assist Lady Cartwright in her attacks against Marianne, but he doubted it. Angels could come down from heaven and accompany Marianne with harps and it wouldn’t change most of their opinions. Once the song ended, they’d clap away their amazement and return to their gossip and lies. Even if they did, Warren didn’t fear for Marianne. She was at last facing them, showing her true self instead of allowing them to define her.
Her face was beautiful and serene as she played, her hair warm gold beneath the candlelight which sparkled in the diamonds gracing her earlobes and echoed in the silk of her dress. She’d worn the stunning creation for him, he was sure of it, revealing more of herself as she had through her music. The first sight of her tonight had nearly stunned all rational thought out of him, it still did. Her magnificent breasts pressed against the rich fabric as each movement of her arms up and down the keyboard made the supple flesh quiver. If he could accompany her home tonight, undo the long row of buttons along the back and take the fullness of her in his hands, he would, but he couldn’t. At least not yet.
He picked at a small imperfection in the lacquer of the pianoforte. His time away from her, despite the pressing issues of the newspaper and Rupert, had made more acute how much he cared for her. He loved her. The piano case vibrated under his fingers with her playing as the realisation struck him. While he’d been in London, he’d missed her melodious voice, the sense of calm he experienced in her presence and the inspiration of her being. With her he could be himself in a way he hadn’t been since the summer before he’d enlisted when he’d simply been the poor sixteen-year-old son of a country vicar, not a surgeon or a famous author. He was a better man because of her, not as haunted by his past, willing to let it go and embrace a future he couldn’t have imagined a few weeks ago. His path would no longer be dictated solely by his career, or fear and guilt, but by the life he might lead with her beside him. He wanted her for longer than through the completion of his novel. It was what she wanted of him which concerned him.
Regret crept along Warren’s spine like the vibrations of the piano beneath his fingertips. He reached into his pocket and crinkled the cut-out gossip article. He hadn’t found his brother-in-law in London. His housekeeper had claimed she hadn’t seen him for days and he hadn’t answered one note or letter from Warren. Even the papers from Mr Steed with all their legal warnings had gone unanswered. The threat of him still lingered out there somewhere waiting to strike, but Warren would make sure it could do them no harm.
Marianne drew the enchanting piece to a close and threw Warren a glorious smile. In her radiance, all the challenges facing them faded away. He withdrew his hand from his pocket and laid it back on the piano case. He wouldn’t show her the newspaper, not tonight. Let her enjoy this small triumph and her happiness. Tomorrow he’d speak with her and they’d figure out how to face the coming trouble together.
At the end of the piece, Marianne folded her hands in her lap. Silence hovered over the stunned guests until Lady Ellington, accompanied by Mr Berkshire, rose to their feet to applaud. With a mixture of enthusiasm and reluctance the other guests joined in, but they didn’t stand. Lady Cartwright didn’t so much as twitch. She sat in the front row, her face screwed up as tight as a book binding. Warren shifted around the piano to block Marianne from the woman’s acid stare as she rose from the bench and dipped into a dignified curtsy.
‘After such fine playing, there won’t be anyone who wants to perform next,’ Lord Astley announced before his wife could, as eager as most of the men for the music to end. There was hunting to discuss and they’d sat through enough pretty playing. ‘Let’s retire to the sitting room for some refreshments.’
Mr Berkshire and Lady Ellington threaded their way through the retreating guests to Marianne and Warren.
‘Everything Sir Warren said about you was true and more,’ Mr Berkshire exclaimed. ‘Was that one of your works?’
‘No.’
‘Well, if you can write music with as much passion as you play it, we’ll sell thousands of copies of your compositions.’
‘Do you really think so?’ She didn’t reject the idea as she’d done when Warren had first proposed it—her daring tonight had given her a new confidence which made her glow. Warren admired it and hoped to see more of it. She would need it if things with the newspaper story grew worse.
‘I do,’ Mr Berkshire concurred. ‘Especially if we can arrange for you to do a few performances.’
The hint of colour in her cheeks faded, along with some of her courage. ‘Perform? In public?’
‘There’s plenty of time to discuss and arrange it all later,’ Warren interrupted. He didn’t want Mr Berkshire pressing her for more than she was ready to do and making her retreat into her reserved self again.
‘Of course. We must enjo
y the evening.’ Lady Ellington waved Mr Berkshire towards the door with one glittering hand. ‘Come and taste Lady’s Astley’s lemon curd. It’s the only thing her cook doesn’t ruin.’
Warren and Marianne were slow to follow. ‘Well done, Marianne.’
‘I can’t believe I did it.’ They’d spoken of Vienna once. He’d love to see her in the grand opera house there, her fine skin glowing under the candles, a young lady enjoying life instead of hiding from it.
‘They noticed you tonight and for the right reason.’ He longed for tomorrow when they’d be alone at Priorton Abbey and he could savour her lips and the press of her breasts against his chest. He should concern himself with all their other problems, but nothing, not his reputation as an author, his bills or the possibility of scandal could intrude on his moment.
He offered her his arm and they walked together to the sitting room as naturally as they had in the garden, even if everything they did was still dictated by the rules of propriety. Instead of joining the small groups of people gathered on the sofa or around the gaming tables, they wandered to a place near the French door leading to a balcony. More than once Warren fingered the cool brass door handle, wanting to push it open and slip with her into the night with nothing but the stars to watch them, but he didn’t. He couldn’t allow his eagerness to be with her to compromise her more than he feared he already had.
* * *
Marianne stood across from Warren, silently willing him to open the French doors and escort her outside. Despite the people chatting together in small circles or watching them from across the tops of their fans, she wanted to be alone with him. For the first time ever, she’d stood alone against her critics, not with Lady Ellington using her influence to defend her, or Sir Warren pressuring them, but with her own talent. When she’d played, she hadn’t been here worried about ugly people and ugly words, but somewhere else. Warren had once said there was a world outside this one which didn’t care about her or her scandals. Playing tonight had been the first tentative step towards finding it. ‘Thank you, Warren, for encouraging me. I couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘You’re the whole reason I came home.’ He turned a bit so his hand which he held by his side was close to hers. Hidden from the others by her body, he pressed his fingers into her palm, his touch firm and welcome like a hot stone clasped between cold hands. ‘I’m glad I could inspire you, the way you’ve inspired me.’
‘It’s as if I don’t fear the world so much when I’m with you, as if I can at last live as I want to, with pride instead of being ashamed like they want me to be.’
‘You can and you will.’ He ran his thumb across her palm, his touch as natural as the chemise against her skin. She didn’t want to pull away, but to draw him closer, to tug off her glove and experience more of his bare skin against hers, to be one with him. This wasn’t the lust she’d feared sitting latent inside her and ready to spring out to ruin her, but a deeper connection. He’d made her believe in herself in a way not even Lady Ellington had done and there was freedom in it, freedom to be herself, to take pride in her accomplishments and to at last open herself up to the affection and connection she’d craved her entire life.
‘Promise me, no matter what happens, you’ll never allow them to make you believe you are anything but the beautiful, intelligent, talented and witty woman you are,’ Warren demanded.
The haunted expression from his portrait flickered through his eyes and she tightened her fingers around his, concern undermining her bliss. ‘Why, what might happen?’
He hesitated, pressing his lips together as if holding back words he debated speaking. ‘Anything, you know as well as I do how cruel the world can be.’
‘I do.’ She’d stood up to her critics tonight, but it wouldn’t be the last time she’d be forced to do so. The strength she’d drawn on to cross the room, to sit at the piano and reveal her talent would have to be called on again and again. The thought didn’t weary her as it had in the past. With Warren beside her she could face anything and anyone, and at last achieve victory over every low opinion of her, including her own.
Chapter Ten
‘It’ll cost twice what I originally told you,’ the foreman announced.
Warren stopped picking his way across the attic, his hope of seeing the roof finished without additional expense vanishing. ‘What?’
‘These supports are rotten.’ The foreman scraped a beam with a small knife and the wood flaked like pastry. ‘This section won’t take the weight of the new slate and needs to be replaced.’
Warren would call the man a fraud, but he’d seen enough waterlogged hospital ships to know when wood was strong and when it wasn’t. ‘How much?’
The foreman screwed up one side of his mouth and rubbed his scraggly chin. ‘Two hundred pounds.’
‘Everything is two hundred pounds.’ Warren stared at the exposed beams and the cobwebs hanging in the corners of the rafters. Sunlight through the narrow attic windows revealed the thick dust covering everything. ‘Will this be the last of it?’
‘No such thing in a house like this, sir.’ The foreman chuckled. ‘But it should see to the roof, keep water from damaging more once the bad weather sets in.’
Warren pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated and exhausted, the peace and excitement of last night rubbed away beneath the pressure of this morning and this latest setback. A lack of sleep didn’t help matters. He’d been up so many times pacing, Lancelot had growled at him as if to say he was disturbing his sleep. During his numerous trips up and down the front hall, the wood overhead creaking with the cold, the suits of armour silently watching him, he’d noticed how different the house was when Marianne was here. She brightened it, filling it with her presence and her music. She made his success, Priorton, everything richer and worth having.
If only he were worth having. She’d bloomed under his belief in her last night, but in reality he hadn’t deserved her thanks or her faith in him. He hadn’t been honest with her about the newspaper, but today it would change. He’d greeted the sunrise ready to ride to Welton Place and tell her, to plan with her how they would handle the encroaching issue together before he’d been waylaid by the foreman. If she didn’t learn of the gossip from him and see how determined he was to remain beside her until it passed, he’d lose her trust. It was time to be done with the man.
‘Then make the repairs. Rain running down the stairs will only cost me more money.’ Warren left the attic, dropping down each step of the narrow and curving upper staircase. When he reached the first floor, Turner, the butler, hurried up to him.
‘Sir Warren, Lord Cartwright is here to see you.’
‘What’s he doing here?’ The Baron had never deigned to visit him before, always summoning Warren to him as if he were the king. His coming to Warren so early in the day, especially after last night, made him uneasy
‘He didn’t say. He’s waiting for you in the sitting room.’
‘Thank you, Turner.’ Warren made his way down the wide front staircase, in no mood to face the man this morning. He didn’t like Lord Cartwright, especially not his wife, but tolerated them like he did so many other titled people because of their patronage. He was beginning to think he should abide by his own advice to not care what people thought of him. There were plenty of common men in England who purchased his novels, and if Mr Berkshire could see them printed in America and Europe as he planned, there’d soon be even more. With so many more fans of his books, he could at last dismiss people like the Cartwrights. He didn’t like relying on anyone, especially not haughty lords with too many friends in the ton who thought nothing of looking down their pedigreed noses at him and Marianne.
Warren entered the sitting room. Lord Cartwright stood in the centre of it waiting for Warren, hat in his hand.
‘Good morning and welcome to Priorton. What do you think of the r
epairs?’ Warren motioned to the updated room with the newly polished panelling, white plaster, better furnishings and fresh curtains. It was a great change from the hideous shape it had been in when he’d purchased it.
‘I can’t say. I’ve never visited here before.’ Lord Cartwright waved his hat at the room, rude in his uninterest.
‘What brings you here today?’ Warren planted his fists on his hips, bracing himself for what he guessed wasn’t going to be polite chit-chat.
‘I’m very disappointed in you, Sir Warren. I’ve been nothing but generous in supporting you and your little stories, pushing them on my friends and introducing you to the best families in the county.’
Warren’s shoulders stiffened at Lord Cartwright’s condescension. ‘I thank you for your support, but I believe it was my own effort, more than anyone else’s, which gained me entrance into last night’s party, Lord Preston’s and many others.’
‘How dare you, a jumped-up tradesman, thumb your nose at my patronage and my family?’ Lord Cartwright’s grip on his hat tightened, twisting the felt brim. ‘Last night, in front of everyone, you encourage Miss Domville, a woman of dubious background, to show up my daughter at the pianoforte.’
Warren ground his teeth at the insult before the truth in the man’s accusation eased his jaw. The memory of Lady Cartwright shooting daggers at Marianne after she’d played came rushing back to him. Warren had encouraged Marianne to play and her superior talent had inadvertently eclipsed Miss Cartwright’s. With the gossip circulating in the Morning Post threatening to reach them, assuming it already hadn’t, Warren might have made things worse with his rashness. Despite his guilt where Marianne was concerned, he wouldn’t stand here in his own home and take Lord Cartwright’s insults. ‘I may not have inherited Priorton, but at least I have the fortitude to work to maintain it, not to sit at the gambling tables like certain lords do and throw it all away on chance.’