II
Isobel sat at the fortepiano but, though her hands rested on the keys, she was not playing. It was as if the instrument were foreign to her. Her fingers could move over the keys in the correct sequence, but the notes sounded flat and uninspired. She had expected the music would come back to her, but it had not. There had never ever been a time when it was not there, crowding her mind until it finally demanded she write it down. Now there was nothing and she was deathly afraid it would never come back. It was a desolate, empty feeling.
The loss of her manuscripts had been a blow. The case had not been there among her things delivered from Jermyn Street, and though she had told Molly time after time to look again, it had vanished. Reconstructing all her compositions was a task for which she hadn’t the energy. What would be the use? she asked herself. Music had made her who she was; without it, she was less than no one. Her mistake had been to fall in love with Alexander. Had she not, she would still be Ian. It seemed unfair that falling in love should have such disastrous consequences. But, then, one of the results of her falling in love had been the twins, and how could she wish her boys had not been born? Her passion for Alexander had been a heady thing, and she almost believed its course had been inevitable. He had so overwhelmed her that she would never have been able to refuse him. Every time she saw him, he still made her heart leap to her throat, but the price of her love had been steep. She got up from the fortepiano, wondering if she would ever play again.
Chapter 39
I
“Well, what do you think?” Alexander asked impatiently. “Will you do it?”
“Lord Hartforde, I should be honored to conduct Lady Hartforde’s symphony.” Faircourt bowed his acceptance of Lord Hartforde’s generous offer. “It isn’t often I am the first to perform the work of a genius, and if it will bring her back, I’m willing to try anything.”
“Excellent! How soon will you be ready for a first performance?”
“I imagine in about a month’s time. Will you attend the rehearsals?”
“With pleasure.”
Faircourt bowed again as Lord Hartforde left, and when he was alone he began to leaf through the manuscripts.
II
“Hurry, Isobel, or we shall be late!” Alexander admonished her for ascending the stairs so slowly.
“I don’t want to go!” She scowled at him. He was cruel to take her to the symphony, and if she’d known his intentions, she would have refused altogether to leave Albemarle Street. Music was no longer a part of her life and she wanted nothing to do with it.
“Nevertheless, we are going.” They paused at the landing. “I have a new protégé I insist you must hear. I’ve spent a good deal of money to get this music performed, and I want to know if you think it’s worth my spending more money on the fellow.”
He took her hand and pulled her up the stairs after him. As it was, they barely had time to get to their box before the overture started. Isobel didn’t know what to think when she realized what Alexander had done. He looked steadily at her. “Faircourt has told me more than once that the composer is a genius. Do you not agree?” He saw the uncertainty in her eyes and he took her hand. “Ian Boxham isn’t dead, Isobel. I want you to make him live forever.” His eyes shone with an intense light that made her tremble when they locked with hers. “I love you, Isobel, and that means I love Ian Boxham. Whatever you decide to do with your music, you have my full support. Ian deserves a patron, and I intend to be an unstinting one.”
“How long have you been planning this?” she asked, trying to suppress the queer feeling constricting her chest. She looked at him and suddenly felt the wall she had constructed around her heart begin to crumble. He understood that without music she wasn’t whole, just as she couldn’t be whole without him. It was as though the world had suddenly opened up to her again, and there was Alexander and her music at the very center of it.
“Ever since Mrs. Peaslea mistakenly gave me your music,” he was explaining. “I had it printed, and your manuscripts bound, as well. Then I hired the hall, the musicians, and, of course, John Faircourt.” He was startled to see a tear trickle down her cheek. “Have I done the right thing?” he asked, a stricken look on the handsome face she loved so well.
“Oh, Alexander!” She threw her arms around him and began to cry. “You’ve done exactly the right thing!”
The End
Books by Carolyn Jewel
Historical Romance by Carolyn
Not Wicked Enough, Book 1 of the Reforming the Scoundrels series, Berkley Books (in the US) eBook in the UK
Not Proper Enough, Book 2 of the Reforming the Scoundrels series, September 2012, Berkley Books (in the US) eBook in the UK
Scandal, 2010 RITA finalist, Best Regency Historical, Berkley Books
Indiscreet, 2010 winner, Bookseller’s Best, Best Short Historical, Berkley Books
Lord Ruin
The Spare
Stolen Love
Paranormal Romance by Carolyn
My Wicked Enemy, Book 1 of My Immortals series, Grand Central Publishing, Forever
My Forbidden Desire, 2010 RITA finalist, Parnormal Romance, Book 2 of My Immortals series, Grand Central Publishing, Forever
My Immortal Assassin, Book 3 of My Immortals series, Grand Central Publishing, Forever
My Dangerous Pleasure, Book 4 of My Immortals series, Grand Central Publishing, Forever
Free Fall, Book 4.5 of My Immortals series A Novella
A Darker Crimson, Book 4 of the Crimson City series
DX (A Crimson City Novella)
About Carolyn Jewel
Carolyn Jewel was born on a moonless night. That darkness was seared into her soul and she became an award-winning author of historical and paranormal romance. She has a very dusty car and a Master’s degree in English that proves useful at the oddest times. An avid fan of fine chocolate, finer heroines, Bollywood films, and heroism in all forms, she has three cats and a dog. Also a son. One of the cats is his. Visit her on the web at www.carolynjewel.com
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Excerpts and Free Reads
Lord Ruin - Historical Romance – Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
London, 1818
Cynsyr glared at the door to number twenty-four Portman Square. “Blast it,” he said to the groom who held two other horses. “What the devil is taking them so long?” He sat his horse with authority, a man in command of himself and his world. His buckskins fit close over lean thighs, and the exacting cut of his jacket declared a tailor of some talent. A Pink of the Ton, he seemed, but for eyes that observed more than they revealed.
“The Baron’s a family man now, sir.” The groom stamped his feet and tucked his hands under his armpits.
“What has that to do with anything?”
A handbill abandoned by some reveler from one of last night’s fetes skimmed over the cobbles and spooked the other two horses, a charcoal gelding by the name of Poor Boy on account of the loss of his equine manhood; and a muscular dun. The groom had a dicey moment what with the cold having numbed his fingers but managed to send the sheet skittering to freedom.
“Man with a family can’t leave anywhere spot on the dot,” the groom said.
“I don’t see why.”
The door to number twenty-four flew open with a ringing crack of wood against stone. Of the two men who came out, the taller was Benjamin Dunbartin, Baron Aldreth, the owner of the house. He moved down the stairs at a rapid clip, clapping his hat onto his blond head as if he meant to cement it in place. The other man gripped his hat in one hand and descended at a more leisurely pace. The wind whipped a mass of inky curls over his sharp cheekbones.
“My lord.” The groom handed Benjamin the reins to the dun. Before the groom could so much as offer a leg up, Ben launched himself into the saddle without a word of greeting or acknowledgment. Most everyone liked Benjamin. With his good l
ooks and boyish smile, it was practically impossible not to. At the moment, however, Cynssyr thought Ben did not look like a man who cared for the family life.
“Come along, Devon,” Benjamin said to his companion. He spoke with such force his dun tossed its head and pranced in nearly a full circle before Ben had him under control again.
Cynssyr’s green eyes widened. “Have you quarreled with Mary?”
“Certainly not,” said Ben.
“Well, you look like you’ve been hit by lightning from on high and still hear the angels singing. What’s put you in such a state?”
“None of your damned business.” The dun stamped hard on the cobbles, and Ben swore under his breath.
Cynssyr’s bay snorted, and he reached to soothe the animal. “I should say it is, if I’m to endure such behavior from you.”
“Devon!”
“Is this, by any chance, about Devon’s letter?”
Ben’s neck fairly snapped, he turned so quickly. “What do you know about that damned letter?”
“He wouldn’t let me read it, but it must have succeeded. Camilla Fairchild is too young to be looking at a man that way.” Cynssyr’s mouth quirked and with the slight smile his austere features softened. When he smiled, he was about as handsome as a man could get, a fact not lost on him. He knew quite well the effect of his smile on the fairer sex.
Devon reached the curb in time to overhear the last remark. Coal-black eyes, at the moment completely without humor, slid from Ben to Cynssyr. “Disgraceful, ain’t it? Her mother ought to set the girl a better example.” He, too, accepted the reins of his gelding from the groom. He glanced at the stairs.
“Do you think she will?” Cynssyr managed, quite deliberately, to sound as though he hoped she wouldn’t. Christ, he hoped not. He fully expected to soon discover what Mrs. Fairchild’s backside felt like under his hands. Soft, he imagined. Energetic, he hoped.
“You ought to know better, Cyn,” Devon said. “Even Mary said so.”
“You will be relieved to know that at lord Sather’s rout Miss Fairchild’s passion was as yet untempered by experience. I merely provided her some.” His smile reappeared. “A regrettably small amount, to be sure.”
“You know, Cyn,” Ben said, "one of these days you’re going to miscalculate and find yourself married to some featherbrained female who’ll bore you to tears.”
“What else have you done, Devon, that’s made him such wretched company?” Cynssyr kept one eye on Benjamin.
“Not one word,” Ben said, glaring not at Cynssyr but at Devon.
Devon stopped with one foot in the stirrup to gift the world with affronted innocence. “All I did was—"
“Not one!” Ben turned a warning glance on him, too. “Not a word from you, either, Cyn.”
Dev shook his head and mounted, exchanging a glance with Cynssyr who shrugged and found himself still mystified.
Only when the three were long out of earshot of the groom and riding toward Hyde Park did Ben speak. “How dare you?” He took a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and thrust it at Devon. “How dare you!”
“My personal correspondence is none of your affair.” Devon, who had never expected to come into his title, could nevertheless exude more condescension than ever his father had managed, and the previous earl had been a master.
“Give me one reason I oughtn’t call you out.”
“Now see here,” Cynssyr said, more than a little alarmed.
“Frankly, Cyn, if you knew about the letter, I ought to have satisfaction from you, too.” Ben turned back to Devon. “Well?”
“I asked permission to court her when we were at Rosefeld for your wedding. But I had not the proper credentials then.” Devon laughed bleakly. “I am Bracebridge now.”
“Four years ago,” Cynssyr said, "Camilla Fairchild was all of what, twelve or thirteen?”
“Good God,” said Benjamin. “Not Miss Fairchild.”
Devon snatched the crumpled paper from Ben’s hand. “I won’t lose her a second time.”
“Lose whom?” Cynssyr drew even with Devon. “What are you two talking about? Devon, I thought your letter was for Miss Fairchild.” Two women out for a morning walk stopped their stroll to stare at the men riding by. Out of pure habit, Cynssyr gave them an assessing glance, which made Devon laugh.
“Have you declared yourself?” Ben waved at the paper in Devon’s hand. “Besides in that note of yours, I mean.”
“If not Miss Fairchild, then whom?” Cynssyr said, by now more than a little annoyed. “Miss George?” When that got no reply, he said, "Not Miss Willowby. Oh, please, no. If it’s Miss Willowby, I forbid it.”
Devon slid the note into his pocket. “She has not the slightest idea of my feelings.”
“Good God.”
“Now that she is here in London,” Devon said, "I mean to change that.” He pulled back on his black, waiting for Ben’s dun to draw alongside. Once again, Cynssyr found himself maddeningly excluded. “With your permission, of course.”
“It isn’t my permission you need be concerned with,” Ben said. “It’s her father’s.”
“The old man can bugger himself for all I care.” The black-as-the-depths-of-hell eyes that even Cynssyr, who knew better, sometimes thought devoid of life flashed with a violent fire.
Benjamin grinned.
They were at the Park now, off the streets and onto the riding paths. “Would one of you,” said Cynssyr, "please tell me what the devil you’re talking about?”
“Dev thinks he’s in love.”
“That much I gathered.” He looked over at Devon. “In love with whom?”
“My sister-in-law,” Ben said, throwing up one hand. “That’s who.”
Cynssyr gave Devon a look. “Which one?” He moved out of the path of a fat gentleman on a white mare. To the best of his recollection, there were four Sinclair sisters and Benjamin had married one of them. That left three. And, if memory served, the Sinclair sisters deserved their reputation for beauty. Ben’s wife, Mary, was among the most beautiful women of Cynssyr’s rather vast acquaintance. He almost didn’t blame Ben for marrying her.
“I don’t think I’m in love.”
“The youngest? Miss Emily?” His green eyes flickered with interest. “If she turns out half as beautiful as she promised, she’ll cause a riot at her debut.”
“No. And stay the hell away from Emily, Cyn.”
“Then it must be the brunette. Lucy.” The name rolled off his tongue replete with his recollection of ebony hair and features of heartbreaking perfection.
“No.”
“You mean the eldest?” He could not for the life of him summon an image of the eldest Sinclair sister. “That’s impossible. I don’t even remember her.”
“Blonde? Gray-blue eyes. Yay tall.” Ben indicated an inch or so below his chin which meant a tall woman, perhaps even an ungainly one. “You’ll meet her tonight at the ball. Meet her again, that is.”
“Why don’t I recall her?” Cynssyr glanced at Devon.
“And by the way,” Ben said. “Stay away from Lucy, too.”
“Why?”
“Because when it comes to women, damn you, Cynssyr, you’re a rogue, that’s why.”
“Mama begins to despair. Perhaps I ought put to rest her doubts of a succession.”
Ben snorted. “I’d not curse any of my sisters-in-law with you for a husband.”
“Now that,” Cynssyr said, "wounds me deeply. When at last I marry, I expect I’ll make a most excellent husband.”
“Hah,” said Devon.
“Et tu, Bruté?"
“You can’t even settle on what woman to seduce tonight.”
“If not for Napoleon, I’d likely be years married. A positive dullard, like Ben here.” But Napoleon there was, so Cynssyr wasn’t married at all. Love, naturally, would have but a limited role in any marriage he contracted. The war had burned out his capacity, if ever he’d possessed it, for such saving emotion.
&
nbsp; “A dullard?” said Ben, spoiling his attempt to appear insulted by breaking into laughter. Devon rolled his eyes.
“Whatever you two think, I’m quite aware I need a wife. A man of my station requires a wife, as my desperate mother so often reminds me.”
“God help the woman fool enough to marry you,” Ben said.
“Why not one of your sisters-in-law, Ben? It seems an excellent idea.” Dozens of suitable candidates were thrown his way every season, this one being no different from any other since the war. But he’d not been able to bring himself to the sticking point with any of them.
“No.”
“I’ll reform.” He grinned. “I promise.”
“You’ll reform when hell freezes over.”
A faint memory tickled at the back of his mind. He tapped his temple. “You mean the spinster, don’t you, Devon? The eldest. The one with the spectacles.”
“Blond hair, gray-blue eyes. Yay tall,” Benjamin repeated.
“What was her name?”
Ben’s blue eyes chilled another degree. “Anne.”
“Gad. I still don’t remember her. Except for the spectacles.” He looked askance at Dev. “I have never understood his taste in women.”
“You truly want to marry Anne?” Ben asked Devon. Curiosity and relief lingered at the edges of the question, but hearing him, no one could doubt the seriousness of the matter. No doting father could have sounded more cautious.
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