by Jane Ashford
“He’ll tell her she’s mistaken.”
“And assume she’s hoping to entrap him, which she certainly is.”
“Won’t that would be rather humiliating for her?”
“Exactly,” replied Olivia with a nod. “And Miss Frances Reynolds will be taken down a peg, as she richly deserves. You may take my word for that.”
Since she didn’t know anything about Miss Reynolds, Verity had no other option. But even if Olivia was right, the bouquet seemed a mean trick.
When Verity and Olivia came downstairs a little later, they found a new caller in the drawing room. She looked familiar, and when Lady Hilda Stane was introduced, Verity realized why. Emma’s younger sister resembled her in many ways.
“We’re going up to my bedchamber,” said Beatrice, tugging the other girl’s arm. “And you are not invited.”
Olivia and her mother merely laughed.
* * *
Randolph was adjusting the angle of the drapery to exclude the sun when his mother entered the music room on Friday afternoon. “I thought I would sit with Mrs. Sinclair today,” she said. “I don’t want her to feel neglected.”
He was torn. Conversation would divert the lady from her chaperone’s duties. But he would feel more self-conscious under his mother’s observant eye. She would notice, as he already had, that he’d been anticipating this rehearsal more than a glittering ton ball. “She seemed quite content with her embroidery the last time,” he said.
The duchess merely smiled.
Randolph silently conceded. One didn’t argue with that smile. Not after the age of seven or so, when the futility of it had sunk in.
Miss Sinclair and her mother arrived soon after, and Randolph felt an odd sort of shock when his singing partner entered. Of course he remembered her perfectly well—the bright hair, pretty face, and frankly delectable figure. But the impact of her presence was greater than the sum of those details. He felt as if the room had grown a little brighter, its outlines a bit sharper.
Mrs. Sinclair followed the duchess over to the sofa in the corner and sat down. Randolph led the younger woman over to the sheets of music laid out on the table between the windows. “I thought we should try the songs in the order we discussed,” Randolph said.
“To see how the whole program works,” she replied.
“And if we need to change the sequence.”
“So that the whole makes the perfect impression.”
Randolph nodded. They fell into this automatic harmony, he thought. Over music. If nothing else. He took up the sheets, went to sit at the pianoforte, and they began.
It was just as before. When they started to sing, they seemed to enter a different realm where all was in tune. Depending on the mood of the piece, they could be spritely, tossing harmonies back and forth like skilled lawn-tennis players; affecting, hovering together on a tremolo of tears; or searingly sensual, once again rousing Randolph to a pitch he’d never experienced before. He knew that singing was an intensely physical act—the control of the breath, the shaping of the notes, and the projection of sound. But he’d never been aware of it in this reciprocal way, with a partner who matched him at every turn. It set him afire.
The quiet conversation in the corner, the room, the city all dropped away. He lost himself in the depths of Verity Sinclair’s blue-green eyes, the movements of her lips, the sway of her torso. As the last refrain of the final song died away, he started to reach for her.
The sound of applause recalled him. The duchess was clapping enthusiastically, leading Mrs. Sinclair to join her. “Bravo!” declared the former. “You really are very talented, both of you.” She smiled at Randolph. “My artistic son.”
The pride in her eyes warmed him and brought him back down to earth. The descent was jarring, and a relief. He’d nearly thrown propriety right out the window. It was also an intense frustration. He rose and managed a humorous bow.
Verity put a hand on top of the pianoforte, afraid she might lose her balance. It was hard to breathe, even though she’d had no trouble while she was singing. With the music gone, she was dizzy with…aftereffects. She’d thought, there at the end, that Lord Randolph was going to pull her into his arms and indulge in the kiss that she’d now pictured a hundred times. She’d been more than ready, longing for his touch, until the burst of applause reminded her that a kiss was impossible.
“How nice to be able to make music like that,” said her mother.
Verity stared at her. Could she really not have noticed that her daughter had been practically ravished before her eyes? It seemed so. Mama looked…complacent, practically smug. She looked like a woman whose tedious job is nearly done. Ah, Verity thought. Mama saw these rehearsals as courtship and expected an offer momentarily. Followed by a post chaise home to Chester and resumption of her comfortable, provincial existence. Verity resolutely didn’t glance at Lord Randolph. She didn’t want her life signed, sealed, and wrapped up in cotton wool. She just wanted that kiss.
Refreshments arrived. The cakes were luscious, but Verity hardly noticed despite her weakness for sweets. She struggled to make light conversation when her mind was still elsewhere, until one of her mother’s remarks called it back.
“With your interest in female education, perhaps you’ve seen the works of Mary Wollstonecraft?” Mrs. Sinclair asked the duchess.
“I believe I’ve heard the name,” Lord Randolph’s mother replied.
“As have I,” he said. “A rather unusual woman, wasn’t she?”
“Her life was unorthodox, as her detractors are all too ready to point out. And of course I cannot condone all her actions. But do we judge male philosophers on the basis of their private behavior?”
“It depends,” said Lord Randolph.
“Some of them crow about their bastard children,” Verity’s mother declared.
“Mama!” Verity glanced at the duchess. She didn’t look shocked.
“Females aren’t to say these things,” Mrs. Sinclair added thoughtfully. “At least not in company. And that is part of the problem. Mary Wollstonecraft believes, rather fiercely, that women should be educated and have the same fundamental rights as men.”
“Men don’t all have the same rights,” replied Lord Randolph. “Many have very few. What does she consider fundamental?”
And with that, the two of them were off on a spirited discussion of the nature of rights and responsibilities and the necessity of set societal roles. They gestured; they interrupted each other; they frowned over complicated points. And they showed no signs of stopping any time soon. As the conversation surged back and forth, Verity was amazed by two things. First, here was another person who could be swept away by ideas as easily as Mama. And second that Lord Randolph debated her mother without condescension. He spoke, in fact, as if she had an equal right to an opinion, as long as it was well reasoned. Mrs. Wollstonecraft would have been immensely gratified.
Verity met the duchess’s eyes. She seemed genuinely amused. “Birds of a feather,” the older woman murmured. “Your mother has been rather quiet up to now. One might have assumed, mistakenly, that she had little to say.”
“Mama is a…not a wolf but more like a crow, or a cat, in sheep’s clothing.”
Before Verity could worry that their hostess would find this remark odd, the duchess laughed. “I like that,” she said.
Then, at the same moment, Verity’s mother and Lord Randolph stopped talking and looked self-conscious. “I tend to go on and on,” said the latter.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Sinclair.
“Not at all. It was very interesting.”
“Well, I was interested, but my family says I often take a point too far.”
“So does mine,” declared Lord Randolph, with a droll glance at the duchess. He turned to smile at Verity’s mother.
The comradely look they exchang
ed was touching, even as it increased the sense of danger Verity felt around Lord Randolph. This man kept throwing out new, beguiling facets. He was terribly difficult to resist. But resist she must. “Were you always musical?” she asked him, to change the subject.
“He certainly was,” the duchess replied. “As soon as he learned to walk, he used to toddle off to the kitchens, demand a set of copper pans, and beat out rhythms with wooden spoons.”
“Mama!”
The duchess laughed at him. “My cook finally protested. Not at the noise. He produced a fine rat-a-tat. But he set the kitchen maids to dancing when there was work to be done.”
“I’ve always thought this story apocryphal,” said Lord Randolph. “I have no such memory.”
“You were too young. I can produce eyewitnesses,” teased the duchess.
“Verity used to sing to our dog at that age,” said her mother, her society manner once again in place. “And to flowers in the garden, and sheep in the meadows. She once sneaked into the choir stalls in the cathedral and joined in during a service.”
The subjects of these reminiscences exchanged a commiserating look. And then as quickly looked away.
“Kindred spirits, I think,” added Verity’s mother with a nod.
The duchess obviously understood where Mama’s thoughts were trending, Verity thought. This wouldn’t do at all.
“Character does seem to form at a young age,” their hostess answered. “My son James, for example, was always mad to go to sea. And now he’s living on his own ship and sailing the globe.”
“Living on a ship?” In an instant, Verity forgot all else. “He travels all the time?”
“He puts in to port now and then,” said Lord Randolph.
“Wherever he’s drawn to explore,” Verity said. “The farthest reaches of the Earth.” A fabulous, perfect way of life unfolded in her mind.
“And for supplies, I suppose,” Lord Randolph said. “Fresh water, that sort of thing.”
Verity leaned forward. “Does he visit you here?”
“He was in England last spring,” Lord Randolph said. “He mustered out of the navy, now that the war’s well over.”
“I missed him!” The words popped out before Verity could censor them. Her chagrin at this lost chance was too strong. Lord James sounded like just the sort of man she was seeking. If only her parents had given in to her persuasion sooner!
“He stayed in one place long enough to meet his wife,” said the duchess. “And then they were off together.”
Verity’s imagined life as a rover fell about her ears. Some other girl had snapped up Lord James before she had the opportunity. It was cruelly unfair. “Oh.” She came fully back to her mundane surroundings with a bump.
Lord Randolph looked irked, her mother perplexed. And it felt as if the duchess’s acute blue eyes could see straight through her, into nooks and crannies that Verity didn’t even understand herself. She needed a diversion. “Shall we see you at the Mellons’ this evening?” she blurted out.
“No.” Lord Randolph sounded a bit curt. “I promised to escort Sebastian’s young sister-in-law, and her new friend, to a play.”
“Beatrice and Hilda?”
“Yes. You’re acquainted with them?”
“I met them at Olivia’s house. I expect you’ll have a…lively time.”
“If I can keep Hilda from disrupting the action onstage, I’ll be satisfied.”
“Or Beatrice from joining it,” Verity said. She’d heard about her friend’s sister’s ambitions.
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Verity was aware of the older women watching them. “You’ll miss Herr Grossmann. He’s putting on another demonstration.”
“I do not understand why anyone would allow a stranger to run his fingers over their skull,” said Verity’s mother.
“I think it’s rather like going to a fortune-teller,” replied the duchess. “With another form of divination.”
Lord Randolph cocked his head. “An interesting idea, Mama.”
“People love to hear about themselves. And to have their…foibles dissected. As long as the report is mainly favorable, of course.”
“I do not,” said Verity’s mother. “I see it as pure flummery.”
“I should have said some people,” the duchess said. “I don’t intend to submit to Herr Grossmann’s attentions either.”
“He told Robert all sorts of flattering things,” said Lord Randolph.
“And I’m sure Robert enjoyed it. But even so.”
“What about you, Miss Sinclair? Will you be volunteering?”
He smiled at her—that devastating smile. Verity’s pulse jumped, and she found she was glad he seemed over his pique.
“Of course not!” said her mother. She put down her teacup with a click and consulted the mantel clock. “We should be going, Verity. It’s nearly five.”
“So late! I had no notion.”
In the bustle of departure, Verity managed to avoid meeting Lord Randolph’s eyes. She did not evade a searching gaze from his mother.
Eight
The date of the Carleton House performance came all too soon for Randolph. Indeed, the last few days before it seemed to rush past in a blur. He wasn’t worried about singing. He knew their program was well crafted. But after this, he would have no more excuses to spend hours practically alone with Verity Sinclair. He’d come to cherish those times, and to dream of their singular…harmonies at night. He’d even wondered if they could find more occasions to sing together. But he knew that was unlikely. To perform at a prince’s command was one thing. It couldn’t continue.
As agreed, Randolph arrived early to check on the arrangements and the pianoforte provided. There was no real question; the prince would have the best of everything. But ever since the ram, Randolph had made a point of being thorough.
“Mama is adjusting her hair,” said Miss Sinclair when she entered the music room a few minutes later. She looked stunning in a gown of pale blue-green that echoed the color of her eyes and clung to her contours in a way that tantalized while remaining perfectly proper.
Randolph was shaken by the desire that surged in him at the sight of her. He hadn’t realized how far his impulses had roamed. She gave him a questioning look. He turned and sat down at the instrument, his fingers on the keys. They tried a few refrains and smiled at each other at the quality of the sound. “We go so well together,” said Randolph, gazing up at her.
His lovely companion, who had been leaning against the pianoforte at his side, bent forward and kissed him.
For an instant, Randolph was startled. But the feel of her lips, soft and tentative, ignited him. He stood and pulled her into his arms. She threw hers around his neck and pressed closer. He reveled in the feel of soft, pliant woman, and in the knowledge that her feelings had been moving in the same direction as his. He let the kiss wander into deeper territory.
A discreet cough at his back made him jerk away. A liveried footman stood in the doorway. “His Majesty is coming to welcome you,” he said, giving no sign that he’d seen anything out of the ordinary.
Well, most likely it wasn’t unusual for Carleton House, Randolph thought as he reluctantly stepped away from her. The fellow had probably witnessed far worse. Randolph wished Miss Sinclair hadn’t been involved, however.
Their rotund royal host sailed in, resplendent. “All in order?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied Randolph.
The prince’s gaze had paused and fixed on Miss Sinclair’s bosom. “Going to stay in here until the time, eh? Just the two of you?”
“Miss Sinclair’s mother will be along in a moment.” Randolph was thankful that she hadn’t been the one to discover them.
“Oh, you don’t want that,” said the prince. “I’ll fob her off, shall I?”
“That’s not necessary, sir.”
“Really?” The older man’s tone was incredulous. “Ah, you’re Langford’s parson son, ain’t you?” he said then. “I suppose you have to act the saint.” His expression mixed pity and mild contempt.
That made Randolph angry, but he said nothing. Mrs. Sinclair rushed in then, distressed at having taken a wrong turn. She stopped short and curtsied at the sight of the prince. He offered a few cordial platitudes and departed. “Oh my.” Mrs. Sinclair let out a long sigh. “There’s such a crush of people already. All very grand, of course. Your mother kindly helped me find my way, Lord Randolph.”
“Come and sit down, Mama,” said Verity.
Randolph took Mrs. Sinclair’s arm and led her over to a sofa by the wall. “You can be comfortable here. No need to move until it’s over.”
“I wish it was,” Mrs. Sinclair said, plopping down and fanning herself with one hand. “I can’t abide strangers pressing all around me. And it’s very warm, isn’t it?”
“The prince hates drafts,” replied Randolph. “He keeps his windows shut tight.”
“I daresay it will be stifling when all those people come in here.”
“I’ll find you a glass of lemonade.”
“Oh, I don’t wish to trouble you.”
“No trouble.” He’d find that footman to fetch it, Randolph thought as he went out. And he would overcome his desire to kiss Miss Sinclair again, and again, before they became the target of hundreds of curious eyes.
* * *
At the appointed time, the crowd surged into the music room and filled the rows of gilt chairs provided for them. The air filled with the rustle of silks and curious murmurs. As Randolph had predicted, most of them stared. Miss Sinclair looked uneasy, and he tried to encourage her with a smile.
The prince came to the front and raised a hand for silence. “We have quite a treat before us,” he said. “A pair of very talented amateur musicians kindly agreed to entertain us tonight.”
He emphasized amateur not to insult their skill but to show that he didn’t consider them hirelings, Randolph realized.