Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03]

by Strangers Kiss

  It happened sometimes that someone other than Edward would be her inspiration. With a “Ti amo sempre” to her husband, Elena left the room to make her first singing appearance in England.

  4

  WALKING PURPOSEFULLY down the passage, intent on leaving, Meryon did his best to control his annoyance at being dragged into such a personal discussion with the woman. And to kiss her!

  Meryon could not lie to himself. He knew how that had happened. When she looked at him, her eyes filled with tears, a voice begging for comfort, he could not resist the invitation. It was definitely time to find a mistress.

  Once he crossed the back of the ballroom, Meryon had to slow his pace. As usual, people clustered near the entrance. Besides The Gossips, every guest paused after they were announced, some to look for acquaintances, others to wait for a spouse.

  Meryon could not make his way to the door without stopping to greet people. Even as he listened to their welcome and their worries, he realized that his inclination to leave immediately was misguided. He should wait until he could identify his companion in the dark, only because it made sense to know in whom he had confided.

  Her rose perfume, her soft mouth, her lovely voice tickled his memory. All right, Meryon admitted to himself. There was more than one reason he would wait to see what she looked like.

  If she did not return to the ballroom he could always ask Letty to name her.

  As he listened to concerns about the state of agriculture, the general unrest, and a number of other subjects that were less than cheerful, Meryon watched the passage. He counted four ladies come into the ballroom, none of them tall or elegant enough to be his companion.

  Twice, he was drawn into meaningful discussion. Everyone had an opinion, some better voiced than others. But none of them had solutions. Apparently they counted on Parliament to come up with a way to solve the problem they considered most urgent. Each left him with a bow and an expression of appreciation for his consideration. One annoyed him.

  “How is it, Your Grace, that Parliament agreed to the suspension of habeas corpus, and, in less than a year, removed the suspension?” DeBora spoke in a loud voice, deliberately, to attract notice.

  “I was absent from London last year and away from the country for the last six months, Mr. DeBora. I cannot speak for the actions of Parliament.” Meryon spoke with a cordiality that took some effort. It occurred to him that DeBora served as Bendas’s second in more than dueling.

  “Yes, and we understand your bereavement.” DeBora’s perfunctory words pushed Meryon’s temper up a notch. “You were absent, but half the seats from Derbyshire are under your control. Surely you still consider violent dissent a real threat.”

  “I did and I still do.” Meryon had explained his stand a dozen times at least. “But that is no reason, nor has it ever been, to deny men their rights.” He could speak on, but then he would sound too much like a Jacobin. He held his temper and made to turn away.

  “Your Grace, that is easy to say when you live in a castle and are protected night and day.”

  There was gasp from a woman nearby who had been eavesdropping.

  DeBora was trying to insult him, to make him lose his temper. Meryon knew exactly who was behind that.

  “The only protection I need is from fools like you. What do you know of threats to your safety?” He ignored DeBora and addressed the people who were listening. “Would you have us behave like the French, who do not think that you need a reason to put a man in prison? Believe me when I tell you that you can pay too high a price for security.” He gave them all a curt nod and the group dispersed, as he intended.

  Meryon then gave this Bendas lackey his full attention, speaking in a voice so quiet that no one but a complete idiot would miss the challenge in it. “Tell Bendas that he is a coward to send you to do his work.” Meryon relaxed his fist. “I am not that easily gulled. Leave my sight, or I will find you at Jackson’s and we will fight with our fists. I guarantee it will hurt more than words.”

  Even the goddess of all beauty and grace was not worth conversation with DeBora. Without waiting for an answer and determined to ask Letty to name a guest who had lived in Italy until recently, Meryon turned and found his friend Kyle looking anxious.

  “DeBora is a fool.” Meryon loosed some of his temper with those words. “He wouldn’t be allowed in the room if he hadn’t married the daughter of a marquis. Bendas put him up to this. DeBora cares no more about habeas corpus than I care about women’s shoes.”

  “You and Bendas?” Kyle shook his head. “When will this feud end, for God’s sake?”

  “This ‘feud,’ as you call it, will end when Bendas is ruined.” Meryon had never said that aloud before, but Kyle needed to understand there was no halfway.

  “Ruined?” Kyle’s expression showed more confusion than distress. “The duel was supposed to end your retribution.”

  “Bendas fired early and admitted that he wanted me to die. The duel, as defined in the Code Duello, never happened.” Before Kyle could answer, Meryon went on. “I know you live to debate any issue, my friend, but you cannot sway me on this. Not tonight. Or tomorrow.”

  “The thing is, Lyn”—Lord Kyle tugged at his cravat as though it were choking him, keeping him from speaking—“to seek revenge is unworthy of your rank. Revenge diminishes you as a gentleman.”

  “You misspeak when you call it revenge. I want justice for Kepless and his family.” Meryon gave Kyle a deliberately intent stare.

  “I’ve always hated that ‘off with your head’ look.”

  Meryon could not help but laugh at Kyle’s impertinence. “There are times when your French heritage shows through. The guillotine is not used in England.”

  “Madame might be ghastly, but the blade is quicker and cleaner than what you are doing.” Kyle raised his hand when Meryon’s smile faded. “Never fear. I’ll protect your back. I always will.”

  “I never doubted you would.” Did Kyle give any thought to how this vendetta would affect him if it played out badly? He would save that discussion for another day. “Will you be at Jackson’s tomorrow?”

  “I’ve been there when you allow yourself to lose your control.” Kyle patted his shoulder. “I will be no more than a spectator.”

  “The Gossips are trying to determine what we are so intense about. Laugh, or they will begin to weave a story worthy of one of Georges’s melodramas.”

  “Georges’s plays are beyond belief.” Kyle did laugh. “At least The Gossips almost always have some bit of truth buried in their tales.”

  “You’ve been to a performance.”

  “My sisters insisted they must go see one.” Kyle leaned closer as though ready to confess. “Frankly, Georges’s fables are amazing tales. I have seen three and each one is more incredible than the one before it. And the actresses are quite, quite lovely. Georges knows how to attract an audience. If Bonnie were not bright, beautiful, and so sweetly generous, I would know where to look for a new mistress.”

  “I’ll take that as a hint and see if I can make up a party to attend.”

  The music stopped and the dancers began to drift to the edges of the floor, ending their private conversation and now effectively trapping them between ballroom and hall.

  “I am determined to have a word with Mrs. Harbison and be off before the next set forms or someone insists on talking politics again. Tell me, Kyle, if we come to these galas to escape the pressures of Parliament, why do so many want to talk about what goes on there?”

  With a laughing slap on the back, Kyle bid him farewell and Meryon searched the area for his hostess.

  “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  Meryon looked to his right and then down at Viscount William Bendasbrook, a strange little man of wit and intelligence. Meryon liked him, but he did not trust him. Lord William’s grandfather was the Duke of Bendas.

  “Lord William.” Meryon acknowledged him and began to move on. At that moment, the orchestra played a chord, demandin
g their attention, and the viscount grabbed his arm, keeping it in a bruising hold.

  “You cannot leave, Your Grace. You must hear this woman. She is amazing.”

  “I am not interested in hearing anyone sing.” Meryon jerked his arm, but Lord William would not release it. The duke turned his sharpest gaze on him.

  The viscount remained unfazed. “I will not let go, and think how ridiculous it would look for you to be seen dragging me out of the room behind you. Trust me, Your Grace, you will enjoy this.”

  Harbison’s announcement precluded further discussion, much less an escape.

  “This evening I will introduce to you a lady whose reputation is not yet fully appreciated here in England. None other than the renowned concertmaster and teacher, Signor Ponto, has declared her voice to be one of the finest in all of Europe.” With a gesture to the woman standing below him, Harbison announced, “Signora Elena Verano.”

  The viscount had not let go of Meryon’s arm, but Lord William could not stand still, constantly bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. Meryon caught his eye and Lord William stilled, dropped his hand, and climbed onto a nearby chair for a clear view over the crowd.

  The silence lengthened. Meryon turned toward the stage, where he found the Signora looking at the crowd, smiling, waiting for complete attention.

  She had his. Before him stood the woman he had just met and already kissed, one of the loveliest women he had ever seen.

  Even though she stood on the other side of a noisy, crowded room he could not take his eyes off her any more than he could stop watching a beautiful sunrise.

  Of course, her husband, Edward, must be Eduardo Verano. His mastery of the violin was legendary. Meryon had heard him years ago, before the war, when youth had kept him from fully appreciating Verano’s talent.

  Leave. Leave now. Meryon did not want to hear the song, or rather her voice. It was too easy to imagine it, powerful, evocative and, above all, too filled with emotion.

  He stayed as if rooted to the spot.

  With a gesture to the orchestra, she began. Signora Verano’s voice was not what he expected. It did not have the power for an opera hall, but in a space like this it reached every ear and every heart.

  The last of the whispers stopped as the first notes floated out, but he might as well have been alone with her in the room. She sang with her eyes closed but he still felt her singing to him, only him.

  Although she sang in Italian, Meryon needed no translation. Her voice gave the words all the meaning they needed.

  Passion filled the air. Promise poured from her, mixed with a happiness—no, more than that—a euphoria that spoke of intimacy so complete that his whole body responded.

  Meryon felt as though she were continuing their conversation, assuring him life would go on, even more fully than before. Joy now enriched by experience. Loss gave a deeper meaning to passion.

  Her voice made his kiss a weak and tentative consolation. Oh, how he wanted to show her what a kiss could be.

  Her husband had written this, surely. After they had made love. The music filled the air with such exuberant satisfaction that he could only imagine what they had shared.

  When she finished, the room exploded into applause. Meryon joined them, glancing at Lord William, who was cheering and applauding with an enthusiasm that announced he knew her better than most. Lord William flashed a grin at Meryon, who raised his hands, still clapping, acknowledging her excellence, even as he wondered how the Signora and the viscount had met.

  Signora Verano curtsied a little, smiling and appreciative, with an air of apology for having sung a song of such intensity in public, relieved they were not offended.

  The next song began with an orchestral introduction. It was a joy-filled air that intrigued the listeners as it was so at odds with Signora Verano’s expression. The orchestra stopped playing and he watched her draw a breath before continuing a cappella.

  Leave, he commanded himself. Leave, before she breaks your heart. Looking neither left nor right, Meryon stepped away and into the now empty hall before her voice could draw him back.

  5

  ELENA SAW HIM leave the room. How could he? He had recognized her; she knew he had, as she had known him.

  Her voice faltered for a second, a terrible failure, but it came on the exact note when the mood of the song changed and seemed to add to the moment rather than distract from it. The analytical part of her decided she might sing it that way in her next performance.

  She dismissed the thought and concentrated on the words, losing herself in the music, which drove her sensibilities, coming from her heart and mind.

  At first her world was free from care, oblivious to the future. The blithe first phrases gave way to shock, loss, desolation, and confusion. There were tears on her cheeks as she held the last note. The audience stood silent, transfixed. They understood.

  She smiled an apology for subjecting them to something so painful, as glorious a smile as she could manage. If they thought everything was all right and they need not worry, it was exactly what she wanted them to believe.

  With an audible sigh of relief the audience relaxed and applauded again, not the storm of applause that followed the first song, but one filled with respect and even some admiration.

  Despite calls for more, Elena shook her head and stepped down from the stage. Immediately surrounded by people, mostly men, Elena gathered her composure, hoping that her demeanor would discourage the men who thought they had their next conquest.

  “Tell us about that last song, signora,” a gentleman asked, as though it were not a terribly personal question.

  “I wrote it ten days after my husband’s death.”

  The group was struck silent and she hurried on to ease their discomfort. “The critics called it a theatrical tune filled with maudlin self-pity. All true music lovers, which everyone knows critics are not, loved it.” She smiled to show whose opinion mattered most.

  The group laughed. Then one of them suggested that “it shared true emotion with honesty.”

  “Like the music of Beethoven,” another called out.

  “Thank you for the compliment, sir, but no one equals Beethoven’s genius.”

  Mr. Harbison announced supper and the group began to disperse, heading to the dining room. A few gentlemen offered her their arm, but Elena declined them all and stayed behind to thank her hosts and take her leave.

  Lord William escorted her from the house, a choice noted by more than one of The Gossips. She and William spoke in Italian, which gave them a measure of privacy. Not many Englishmen knew that language as well as they knew French.

  “How sweet of you to see me home, dear man.”

  “Perhaps I will have a chance to see Mia.” He stood beside her but was not still, moving up and down, from one step to another.

  “That is why you are accompanying me! Do you ever do anything with one thing in mind?”

  “Make love.” He tried not to smile as he spoke.

  “That does nothing to make me think of you as an appropriate companion for an eighteen-year-old girl. Besides, you cannot pay a call this late, William.”

  “You are too strict, signora.” He spoke in an aggrieved tone, like a wounded lover. “You sound like an Italian mother.”

  “Guardian.” She winced at the edge in her voice and did her best to soften it as she continued. “Now that both her father and Edward are dead, I am Mia’s guardian.” Most days she felt old enough to be Mia’s grandmother. Was that grief or comparison with the girl’s exuberant youth?

  “She seems amazingly excited about spending her spring in a city where it rains more than the sun shines.”

  “Her enthusiasm is my great good luck. Edward and I had actually talked about the idea that an English husband would calm her.” Though she had thought “balance” was a better choice of words. Mia would add life to any man’s world and the right man would, yes, calm her.

  “As for the weather,” she added, “on
a soft night like this London seems a very kind city. The air feels like spring.” She drew in a deep breath. The scent of new leaves on the trees and shrubs in the park across the road filled her senses with hope and the promise of new adventures. That reminded her of a question that William could answer. “Do you know a man whose wife died within the last year? Her name was Rowena.”

  “Yes, of course. Rowena was the Duchess of Meryon. Her husband is Lynford Pennistan, the duke.”

  “Thank you, William. Thank you.” She looked off at the lighted house across the street. So he was titled. A duke, no less. Not the kind of man she wanted anything to do with.

  “Why?” William asked. “Have you met him?”

  “Not precisely.” Elena knew she should banish the stranger from her mind. Not only because he was a duke, but because if she did not it would fuel William’s unquenchable curiosity. She knew that as well as she knew her name, but that kiss made it impossible for her to resist asking. “William, what do you know of him?”

  “More than I did a year ago.”

  When he did not add anything else, Elena nudged him. “Well?”

  “I cannot share it. I promised, you see.”

  “Dear Mother in heaven, William, you are full of intrigue.”

  “I will tell you this. Meryon is a good man, very private, and his family means everything to him. No threat to his family’s well-being ever goes unpunished.” He nodded, as if confirming a privately held certainty. “Meryon’s loyalty forever changed how I regard him, but I am not at liberty to discuss the details.”

  His smiled with both apology and conviction, and Elena shrugged. William could keep his secret. If it ever mattered, well, then the Duke of Meryon would tell her himself.

  “Did you talk to him before I sang?” It had to have been the duke standing next to him. His seemed the right height and build. And she could not tear her eyes away from him.

  “Yes, I told him he had to hear you sing. What a shame he left before you were finished. I would have liked to introduce you. He’s—”