Love's Refrain

by Patricia Kiyono

  Laura remembered the incident well. It seemed her efforts to take care of her younger stepsister always ended with her getting hurt. Especially now. She hadn’t meant to fall in love with Andrew again, but she had. But apparently he didn’t love her back, and now her heart was broken.

  “I — I can’t tell you,” she said through her sniffles.

  “Of course you can. You can tell me anything.”

  “No, it’s — it’s just too embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing? This from the young woman who marched into her father’s study and demanded to be fitted for a corset?”

  “Papa! I was only six years old. I didn’t know any better.”

  “Perhaps, but it was a few years later when you demanded to learn how to drive a surrey. And a few years after that when you —”

  “Enough, Papa. I realize I have come to you many times when I felt I couldn’t speak to Mother. But this is so painful, I don’t believe I can speak of this to anyone.”

  There was a pause, and then, “Laura, has some cad broken your heart?”

  She lifted her wet eyes to him. “Papa, you know me so well.”

  He took the handkerchief from her and gently wiped her eyes. I know you have a mind sharper than any barrister, the wit of a poet, and the heart of an angel. You think you are lacking because you are not the social darling your sister is, but I know your gifts, and any man who recognizes those gifts will treasure you for the gem you are.”

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  “This idiot who has spurned you, however, is to be pitied. For not only has he thrown away a good woman, he will not ever be welcome in my house. Now, tell me who he is.”

  “I can’t tell you.” If she told him, then Miranda would not be able to marry him. She wasn’t sure she could bear to see him wed her sister. But she would endure it, if that was what Miranda wanted.

  There was a sharp rap on the door, and Jones entered. “My Lord, you have a visitor.”

  Laura stiffened. “I’ll go to my room now, papa, so your guest can come in.” She rose and swept out of the study.

  Knowing Jones would have the guest waiting in the front, she went directly to her room by way of the back stairs to avoid seeing him. She couldn’t bear to see him, not yet. Besides, she must look a mess after sobbing on her father’s shoulder. Hopefully, Jones would be able to repair any damage she’d done to her father’s coat with her silly tears.

  Once in her room, she used the washbowl to freshen her face. She took a deep calming breath, willing the tears to stop. She needed something productive to do.

  Satisfied she had her emotions under control, she settled herself in the chaise longue with a new volume of poetry called Hebrew Melodies. Her father, knowing how she loved poetry, had given it to her last Christmas. She opened it, and her eyes focused on the title: “My Soul is Dark.” How appropriate, she thought. The poem must have been written for her. Perhaps the author, Lord Byron, had experienced the same pain she now felt. Her eyes scanned the page, taking in the poet’s words:

  My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string

  The harp I yet can brook to hear;

  And let thy gentle fingers fling

  Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear.

  If in this heart a hope be dear,

  That sound shall charm it forth again:

  If in these eyes there lurk a tear,

  ‘Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

  But bid the strain be wild and deep,

  Nor let thy notes of joy be first:

  I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,

  Or else this heavy heart will burst;

  For it hath been by sorrow nursed,

  And ached in sleepless silence, long;

  And now ‘tis doomed to know the worst,

  And break at once - or yield to song.

  How perfectly this poem described her feelings. Byron’s words imprinted themselves on her soul, and immediately a melody, full of melancholy, played in her mind. She hummed softly, wanting to keep the song to herself. But the song wasn’t meant to be sung in silence. It wouldn’t stay inside her. The haunting words entwined with the sad, minor modes of the melody and swelled—

  Remembering the guest downstairs with her father, she took her book and slipped down the back stairs to the courtyard behind the townhouse. A recent rain had freshened the gardens and the colorful blossoms beckoned to her.

  Thankful she had put on her sturdy, sensible shoes that morning rather than light slippers, she stepped on the path.

  Again, Lord Byron’s verses filled her heart. There was pain, but the suffering erupted in song. The melody in her head worked its way to her heart and then to her mouth.

  She sang as she walked, keeping the volume fairly low, in case others had decided to enjoy the sunshine.

  Finishing the verse, she felt better, so she began again. But now a countermelody played, a lighter, more cheerful melody, rising above the notes she sang and rendering hope and optimism. She took a deep breath and sang with heartfelt passion, not wanting the feeling to end.

  The last note rang true and echoed for a moment, and she basked in the beauty of the harmony. But suddenly her eyes flew open as she realized that the harmony had not been imagined. Where had the music come from? She whirled around to face her duet partner.

  Andrew stood behind her, his flute still at his lips, as if ready to play another chorus. His eyes shone with emotion. But what was it he felt? Was it pleasure at creating the lovely music? Or could it be…?

  Finally putting his instrument down to his side, he smiled gently. There was no hint of embarrassment, no hesitation in his step as he came to her.

  “I’ve spoken to your father,” he began.

  Laura’s heart dropped to her feet. Of course. She had known the reason for his visit. Why had she allowed herself to hope?

  “Mother told us you would be here,” she told him. “Has Miranda accepted?”

  “Lady Miranda?” His brow dipped in confusion. “I didn’t see her. We didn’t talk about her. You are my only concern.”

  “M-me?”

  “Yes, you. I wanted to speak to you that morning, out here in the garden.” He set his flute on a nearby bench then stood in front of her. He took both her hands in his. Laura held her breath as she gazed into his wide hazel eyes.

  “Until this summer, I believed I was better off alone. I thought I had everything I needed, everything I would possibly want. But like a good song needs a refrain to balance its verse, and like a beautiful melody needs harmony to soar, I need a soul mate to make my life complete.

  “Miss Laura Montgomery, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  The breath she’d held escaped on a sigh. “You want me? Truly?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t just want you, I need you. I need your calm assurance by my side in the face of chaos. I need your compassion in times of despair. And I need the harmony you bring to my life.”

  Laura couldn’t speak. Her heart pounded, and her hands shook as tears of happiness ran down her cheek. Could it be that she was about to receive her heart’s desire? Andrew released her hands and gently wiped away the tears with his thumbs. He placed one hand on either side of her face as he placed a gentle kiss first on her forehead, then on one eyelid, on the other, on her nose, and on each cheek, tracing the path of her tears. Laura held her breath, rejoicing at each touch of his lips on her face, wanting more with each kiss. Finally, when she thought she’d scream, his lips found hers. She matched his kiss with a fervor she’d never known she possessed, clinging to his shoulders, certain she would awaken and find it had all been a dream.

  Abruptly, he broke the kiss and he folded her against his chest. They held each other until their heartbeats slowed and their ragged breaths calmed. His voice deepened to a rumble when he spoke again.

  “Yours is the voice I want to hear each day. It is your face I want to see across the table when I dine. You alone can provide the serenity my life need
s. Please tell me you will accept my offer.”

  She spoke, though her heart sang, this time with overflowing joy. “Oh, yes. I accept.”

  About the Author

  During her first career, Patricia Kiyono taught elementary music, computer classes, elementary classrooms, and junior high social studies. She now teaches music education at the university level. When she’s not teaching or writing, she spends as much time as she can with her grandchildren, cheering them on at sporting and music events.

  She lives in southwest Michigan with her husband, not far from her children and grandchildren. Current interests, aside from writing, include sewing, crocheting, scrapbooking, and music. A love of travel and an interest in faraway people inspires her to create stories about different cultures.

  Also Available at Astraea Press

  Chapter One

  Monday, March 15, 1813

  Golden hair, brilliant as the noontime sunshine, glowed in the light spilling through the coffee house window. A fringe of distracting curls peeked from beneath the rose-endowed bonnet, framing the owner's enchanting face, sensuous and appealing as springtime. Anne Kirkhoven, now Mrs. Frederick Shaw, seemed none the worse for her marital adventure as she breathed in the steam rising from her poised cup. Her eyes flickered open, as if she sensed his gaze through the window, and when she glanced up into his stare, over her new husband's shoulder, no surprise showed in her expression, only warmth and secretive delight. Of course she'd associate the coffee house with him.

  Or at least, with his hunt of her.

  Tasty little morsel that she'd been.

  Another game completed. Another wonderful, beautiful woman whose dream had come true. Ernst Anton Oldenburg, His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, dropped a wink through the coffee house window and strolled with the fashionable promenade into the Strand. He'd done what he could for sweet Anne.

  And so it was time for his next target.

  Who should be slamming out of the Olympic Theater any moment now. And yes… there she was, just ahead, near the corner with Wych Street, her scarlet pelisse askew and flaring to either side like a billowing flame. With grinning, red-faced Finian Fitzwilliam on her heels.

  Just as he should be.

  When His Grace had first seen Beryl Wentworth, he'd thought her a little slip of a waif with enormous eyes and copper curls. Now that he'd done his homework, he'd modified his opinion: she was a little slip of a waif with enormous eyes, copper curls, and a flaming temper to match. In the weeks he'd been observing the pseudo-couple of Miss Beryl and Mr. Fitzwilliam, they hadn't yet enjoyed an entire entertainment of any variety without a violent emotional tempest exploding between them. Like the sun rising in the east and falling in the west, one could set a clock by their societal interruptus.

  His Grace slipped into position behind them, stretching his longer legs to match her furious pace as she stalked across Holywell, heedless of the cursing from a curricle's driver as he hauled his matched Hackneys to a slithering stop. No need to get close; neither elegant combatant chose to modify their raised voices, and a number of merchants and walkers along the Strand turned and stared at their onrushing rampage as she led them past the church's pilastered and niched southern side.

  "I can't believe you compared that horrid wig to Violetta's curls. They're nothing like and you know it." Deft hands straightened the scarlet pelisse's fur collar without slowing. The hemline seemed glued to Fitzwilliam's brown trousers by the winds of her passage.

  "They're much like and any honest person will back the opinion, sure as I'm standing. Or walking. Same shape, same size, same ridiculous sausageyness—"

  "Ooo-oh!" She whirled on Fitzwilliam, bringing their little caravan to a halt in the middle of the narrow, busy sidewalk and jabbing one exquisite finger into his cravat. With her outerwear, copper curls, and sparks flying from her eyes, she looked like a torch, flaring brightly, among the ordinary townspeople edging around their little scene. "That was a comedic wig, designed to look ridiculous. Violetta's curls weren't. She's very proud of her appearance—"

  "Well, perhaps she shouldn't be, elegant lass though she be—"

  The clear choice His Grace faced was to walk past their combat zone or pause and not even pretend to not notice them. No need to consider, really. His choice was not the most polite, perhaps, but far more entertaining than the alternative.

  "—and perhaps you shouldn't be such an outrageous, opinionated boor—"

  "—and perhaps Miss de Lisle should find a new abigail—"

  "—I cannot believe you would so wantonly injure her in such an unfeeling manner—"

  "—or at least look through a few more fashion plates; surely she'll find a more appealing hairstyle if she just tries, all sorts of other ladies do—"

  Both of them seemed to become aware of his looming, listening, vastly entertained presence at the same moment. Fitzwilliam glanced up with a scowl. Miss Beryl's eyes widened even further, huge glistening green pools a man could swim in and never need to come up for air. For a fraction of a second she seemed nonplussed.

  Then her glance cut sideways to Fitzwilliam's red face. His intensely scowling red face. Just for a moment. And then she flashed him a smile and dipped a curtsey.

  Brilliant. She knew how the game should be played.

  "Good day, your grace."

  "Miss Beryl, good day." He bowed over her hand, breathed gently onto the underside of her wrist, and let his fingers trail through hers as she shivered deliciously and withdrew. "It's been far too long. Was it Lady Baldwin's soiree?"

  Another flashing smile, accompanied by a delighted dimple. "That was only last week."

  "Indeed yes. Far, far too long a time." He'd maneuvered for the introduction between the Baldwin niece's Italian aria and her accomplished, intricate performance on the floor harp. Of course, Lady Baldwin had been too busy talking up her niece to oblige, but adorable Lady Gower, her predatorial eyes glittering with a hope of scandal, had been only too happy. And then she'd stood nearby, watching his performance as he'd charmed Miss Beryl, with more attention than she'd given sweet Miss Baldwin's. "It seems we never meet, certainly not sufficiently often. Forward rogue that I am, might I inquire as to your social schedule? There's the Holly Hall dinner tonight, the Kirkhoven card party—" not that he'd be invited to that one "—the public assembly tomorrow night at the Hanover Square Rooms—"

  "I'll be with a party at the assembly rooms." Her voice was breathy, eager, tantalizing. She didn't glance aside again, instead leaning forward, toward him. Those huge eyes widened even more, their dark centers expanding and driving out the green. Oh, yes, a man could get lost in those eyes. Well, some men.

  Miss Beryl promised to be the most intriguing of targets. And tasty wouldn't begin to describe her.

  She was all but begging for the obvious question. So of course—

  ****

  One afternoon. That was all she wanted. One afternoon spent with Fitz and their friends, without an argument breaking out between them.

  It seemed Beryl's desire was more than the universe was willing to grant.

  Fitz. Delightful, enchanting, fun-loving Fitz. Frustrating, irritating man that he was.

  She loved his trick of looking at her sideways, with his head turned away and one eyebrow cocked to the same angle as his hat, his clear green eyes sparkling with mischief and his mouth twisted into a wry grin. The way sunlight tangled with his chestnut curls and highlighted the planes of his forehead and cheeks. His playfulness, boisterous as a winsome child and graceful as the most polished of dancers. The gleam in his eye before he laughed.

  And if she could stop the train of events with his laugh, she'd do it. Anything in her power that could be sacrificed would be fair game.

  Because after his laugh faded away came the teasing. And oh, Fitz's teasing! Once upon a time she'd found his words amusing and responded in kind, but that had been childish and she'd set aside childish ways when she'd matured. Now, the teasing didn't delight her,
but only infuriated. Because the gentle verbal prodding circled about her tightening, coiling soul. It became more forceful, more dry and cutting, the longer she held her temper. It only ceased when she snapped.

  And an argument began.

  It never failed. No matter how formal the occasion, no matter the rank of the guests present, once his sense of humor had been tickled, Fitz always pressed her beyond forbearance. And when she ripped at him in turn, he always acted surprised, as if he'd had no idea how monstrous had been his behavior. And he never let the argument go, never cried for peace nor apologized nor admitted to any fault.

  She could only assume that Fitz loved to argue. No matter how much she hated it. No matter how many times she stalked away from him, swearing she'd never see him again. Because doubtless he knew that, when he came by the next day for tea or a talk, she'd relent and let him in.

  Because she loved him. No matter how blind, unfeeling, childish, and ridiculous his behavior. She loved him.

  No matter that he did not love her.

  One time at Almack's she'd gotten dust in her eyes and he'd loaned her his embroidered handkerchief to staunch the stubborn, emotionless tears flowing down her cheeks. She'd never returned it, and never would, even if he ever remembered to ask for it. Now when she wept, her tears had a cause, a raison d'être, and the handkerchief of the man responsible for her distress absorbed them.

  The loss of a fine linen handkerchief, embroidered with the Fitzwilliam crowned helmet, seemed a reasonable price to exact for his tawdry behavior.

  And in the meantime, out on the crowded sidewalk of the Strand—

  She'd widened her eyes until it seemed logical they'd stick that way, begging for the question (The. Question!) with every ounce of her being. Unlike the boor standing at her shoulder, this charming Duke of Cumberland, this gallant and utterly wrong rake, knew precisely what a woman wanted. And while nobody could ever take Fitz's place in her heart, perhaps His Grace would help Fitz realize what that place should be.