Emma watched her father until he looked back to offer her a wave. When Rebecca looked up to catch that gesture, she saw Christian glance over his shoulder, directly at her, and then he was gone again.
Falling in love is going to be more difficult than I expected. She sighed and walked back to Virginia’s side, sitting down next to her cousin. Aunt Jacqueline raised her eyes from the sewing in her lap to fix Rebecca with a disapproving stare.
“Very well, ladies. The earl and I will hide a treasure for you and present the first clue at dinner tonight. It is up to you to choose your partners for the event. Now, let’s see—”
“I would prefer Lord Easton,” Rebecca said hastily, her thoughts catching up to the present. It was rude, to interrupt Virginia, and to put herself forward when Lady Felicity was higher ranking. Aunt Jacqueline would likely have a lecture for her, given the woman’s sniff of displeasure.
“I think that would be best, actually. I doubt your betrothed wishes to lose any opportunity to spend time with you, dear.” Virginia reached out for Emma and the baby held her arms to her mother, gladly giving up Rebecca’s lap for the more familiar embrace. “And you other ladies? We have three young gentlemen. Will one be left without a partner?”
Miss Dunhill and Lady Felicity debated for a time, but then it was decided that Lady Felicity would rather not be partnered with her twin brother. Miss Dunhill happily agreed to work with the young lord and one of the Mr. Berwyns.
Aunt Jacqueline did not listen to the prattle of the unattached young ladies long. She stood, making certain to gain Rebecca’s attention, and gestured to the door. “I have remembered a piece of music I wanted to show you, Rebecca. Would you attend me to the music room?”
The command could not have been clearer had a general issued it. Her aunt’s posture, stiff as any career soldier’s, also made any argument impossible.
“Of course, Aunt.” Rebecca stood, forcing a smile. “If you will excuse me, Cousin Virginia?”
Virginia shared a commiserating look with her. “Of course. I hope we will hear you play while you are with us, Rebecca.”
Rebecca curtsied silently, then followed her aunt’s ruffled skirts out the door. Rebecca did not consider herself a talented musician. She played well enough to get by in social situations, like a house party, but she took no pleasure in it. Music had never touched her heart the way poetry, or a well-written phrase, had engaged her imagination. She had heard beautiful performances, of course, but nothing that had ever truly inspired her.
Aunt Jacqueline glided down the hall and into the music room.
Once Rebecca entered the room, her aunt closed the door behind her. Rather than stand close to her aunt for the verbal castigation she expected, Rebecca moved with confidence toward the pianoforte, keeping her chin high.
“Which piece is it you wished to discuss, Aunt Jacqueline?”
The music room was large enough that the instrument, placed beside a tall window, was a fair distance from the door. On either side of the door from the hall were shelves, full of books about music and musical selections. Besides the door to the hall, there was another set of doors along the wall to the right, opening into a sitting room which could be employed to sit more chairs for a musical concert. Opposite those doors was a smooth wall, with paintings of people busy in their musical pursuits.
Members of the family knew that the wall of artwork also concealed a secret passageway, leading from the music room to the servants’ stair.
“I most wish to discuss your inability to refrain from acting like an ill-bred country miss instead of the sophisticated lady I expect you to be.” Aunt Jacqueline’s frosty words chilled Rebecca, despite the warm sunlight coming in from the window. “It is difficult enough to present you as a woman of refinement, given your upbringing, without you flouting the expectations of society.”
Rebecca swallowed. Given her only recent affront was speaking before Lady Felicity in conversation, this was a severe dressing-down. Unwarranted, too.
“I am sorry, Aunt Jacqueline, for disappointing you. I will endeavor not to do so again.”
It wasn’t good enough. An apology never was. Perhaps because her aunt could sense Rebecca didn’t really mean it.
“I have learned of your visit to the seamstress yesterday.” Aunt Jacqueline’s nostrils flared. “Your wardrobe is more than adequate. I have seen to it myself that you dress in the very height of fashion. You will not accept whatever quaint gown you commissioned.”
Hettie. Rebecca thought she had concealed the purpose of her trip to the village, but apparently her maid had discovered it and presented the information to the dowager countess.
“Christine paid for the gown,” Rebecca said, keeping her tone soft, though her blood pounded in her ears. “It is absolutely lovely and modest. Virginia has similar dresses—”
“My daughter is a matron and may dress how she pleases. You are an unmarried young woman who remains under my care.” Aunt Jacqueline tipped her nose into the air, remaining hard and unmoving. Rebecca’s father had the same air quite often. “You will do as I say.”
Rebecca rarely even tried to argue such matters. Her aunt would hold power over her until she married. That date might be weeks away, but it was enough time for Jacqueline to make her life miserable. Biting the insides of her cheeks, Rebecca bowed her head in submission, saying nothing.
“The piece you will play is on the instrument. Take the next half hour to practice. I will fetch you after.” Aunt Jacqueline’s tone wasn’t gentle or understanding. Ever. “Sit, Rebecca. Begin.”
Rebecca moved to the instrument and raised her hands to the keys. She looked over the sheet of music in front of her. Nothing too complicated. Her aunt didn’t want to show her ward’s failings to a crowd which included Rebecca’s betrothed, after all.
After she made her way through the first few measures, her aunt left, closing the door behind her.
Rebecca played in the empty room, trying not to think of the lovely day dress she had commissioned from Mrs. Chandler, of the beautiful fabric, the elegant lines. Her life was not her own to control, even in so simple a thing as her garments. She glared at the music notes on the paper, her fingers hitting each key. She played a wrong note, began the measure again. Missed another. Then two. Then three.
The notes on the paper blurred. Rebecca kept playing, her fingers slipping to strike two keys at once. What would’ve been a beautiful, simple melody she rendered a complete mess.
Like everything else she attempted.
Chapter Eight
Pain manifested itself in many ways. Christian knew this. The sounds coming from the music room, on the other side of the parlor doors, were born of pain. That, or someone truly wished to mutilate a light Scottish air.
He went to the doors separating him from the player. He’d been shown to the parlor by the earl, needing the quiet room to write a letter to his grandfather, to make his first report. He’d heard a woman’s voice, stern and disapproving in tone, though he couldn’t make out the words being said. He tried not to. It wasn’t any of his business what the other occupants of the house said or did, after all.
But the music had broken into his thoughts. Each wrong note sounded like a cry of despair.
He’d made sounds like that before. With his violin. In his heart. Slips of fingers on an instrument were often manifestations of sharp stabs of emotion.
He rose without knowing what he would do. He hesitated, his hand on the door handle to the music room. Whoever was on the other side might not appreciate his intrusion. But how could he not look in? What if he could help?
The emotional mess of a stranger is hardly your affair, he told himself.
It sounded too much like his grandfather.
Christian opened the door. She sat at the instrument, her head and shoulders bowed over it. The sunlight illuminated her form, her chestnut hair shone with gold highlights in the sun. Rebecca Devon.
His chest grew tight and his brows drew
down. He’d been in her presence not a quarter of an hour before, and she’d been well. Truly, she’d been radiant, cooing at the child in her arms. She’d even spoken to him, confiding her odd thoughts about societal scavengers. What could’ve shaken her so terribly in such a short span of time?
What do I do? Christian stood helpless, watching her, listening as the notes jangled inharmonious around them. He ought to walk away. Ought to pretend he didn’t see or hear a thing. She hadn’t noticed him. He might escape from the tangle of her pain.
That would be the coward’s way out. This woman, though not his yet wife, had become tied to him. Her concerns must become his soon enough. Why not make an attempt to comfort her?
He approached, quietly. She ought to have seen him coming. Ought to have sensed him and lifted her head, at least. But her eyes were closed and her mind must’ve been well-wrapped in whatever had caused her sorrow.
Christian halted next to the instrument. If he spoke suddenly, he might startle her. If he cleared his throat, the same.
He went to her side, hesitant, unsure of what her reaction might be to him. He dropped to one knee at a respectful distance. His height, he had been told, was daunting to many.
He waited.
Her stumbling fingers slowed on the keys, her eyes blinked open. There were tears in them. She rotated deliberately on the bench until she faced him. Her slow awareness to his presence, her silent acknowledgement, gave them several moments to consider one another.
Rebecca’s throat tightened with a swallow, then she spoke. “I’m not a very good musician.”
Those were not the words he expected, but he did no more than raise his eyebrows.
“However, I’m not usually this terrible,” she added, her voice soft in the empty room. One corner of her mouth twitched upward but fell again. He’d suspected she had a sense of humor from their interaction that morning. That she would try to smile when her distress was obvious also showed a measure of bravery he hadn’t expected.
Christian considered her carefully and took in her defeated posture. “May I?” he asked, raising a hand to gesture to the instrument.
That surprised her, given the way her eyebrows raised. “You play?”
“Passably,” he said, standing to his full height. She moved to the other side of the music bench, expecting him to sit next to her. He hesitated. He wasn’t a small man. And he couldn’t recall ever sitting in such close proximity to a woman to whom he was unrelated.
Rebecca’s eyes still shone with tears. He couldn’t think of her as Miss Devon. Not in this moment, when everything about her posture and expression spoke of hurt and need. Miss Devon was his scheming future wife. Sitting before him now was a young woman in distress.
He sat next to her, cautiously, their shoulders brushing against each other. He looked at the music in front of her, already familiar with the tune she’d been attempting, and put his hands on the keys.
Christian preferred the violin. A violin could sing, after all, whereas a pianoforte had to be pressed into service, each note struck by hammer instead of coaxed into being by the stroke of a bow.
But he could play. And he did. A bright melody, sharply contrasting the mood of the woman next to him. It was a song meant for dancing. As his fingers raced across the keys, conjuring memories of ballrooms and laughter, the woman next to him leaned slightly forward, her eyes on his fingers instead of the music. He made it to the end of the page and finished playing with a flourish, rather than continuing the whole piece, then lowered his hands to his lap.
Rebecca let out a breath, then slowly raised her liquid-chocolate eyes up to meet his. He maintained what he hoped was a neutral expression, giving nothing away. In truth, as he’d played, his heart had raced with the music. And perhaps with some measure of anxiety from her rapt attention.
He rubbed his open palms against the top of his thighs.
“That was more than passable,” she said, tilting her head to one side. A loose curl fell over her ear, brushing against her neck. Her tears were gone. The only evidence left of them was the slight redness around her eyes. “Thank you.”
He nodded and made ready to stand.
A delicate hand on his arm stopped him quite effectively. Her long, slim fingers didn’t move even after he froze.
“My lord,” she said, her voice soft. “I know nothing about you, yet we are to wed.”
Christian said nothing. Theirs was a business arrangement, after all. His momentary kindness, reaching out to a person whose pain he recognized, would’ve been bestowed on another just as easily. At least, he insisted to himself his willingness to approach Rebecca—Miss Devon—had little to do with their relationship.
“I would like—that is, I hope we can take this time to learn more about one another.”
“To what end?” he asked, ignoring the flicker of interest he felt at her words. He studied her, taking in her earnest expression as much as the gentle curve of her cheeks, and the handful of freckles barely perceptible on either side of her pert nose. “We marry either way.”
The hand on his arm stiffened, then withdrew. “Yes, of course.” She folded her hands in her lap. “But I hope to at least know a little about my future husband before I say my vows. Wouldn’t you like to know more about me?” Her brow wrinkled, her eyes searching his.
As he had alternatively considered and fought against the idea, he had no ready answer. Coming to know her better would not change the end result of their engagement. They would wed. Papers had already been signed, his grandfather approved the match, and all of society knew of the betrothal thanks to her gossiping London friends.
His grandfather made it plain that Christian had only found a bride due to his title and inherited wealth. What woman would have him for any other reason? It was his preference, truly, to stay away from emotional attachments.
Her smile appeared as he considered her, the expression tinted with a measure of disappointment. But when she spoke, her words were almost playful. “You should know I will not give up the idea. Not easily, at least. I have made up my mind, in fact. By the end of this house party, I will know all about you.”
He drew back, narrowing his eyes at her. “I have learned one thing about you already, Miss Devon. You are presumptuous.”
Rather than blush, or apologize, or raise her chin haughtily as a true society miss might, her smile grew larger. “Yes, I suppose I am. But I have my reasons, my lord.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Christian studied the mischievous glint in her eyes. Was she teasing? Flirting, perhaps? He could not remember the last time an English miss had looked at him with such an open and honest expression.
“What are your reasons, Miss Devon?” he asked, his curiosity inspiring the question.
Briefly her eyes lowered to her lap, where her fingers laced and unlaced continuously. “I am concerned complete honesty may only frighten you at this point.”
“Complete honesty would be refreshing at any point.” Christian took in her rounded shoulders and fidgeting fingers with interest. He could feel the tension surrounding Rebecca; her silence was contemplative. She chewed her bottom lip, her stare unfocused. Whatever she was considering, she was devoting serious thought to it.
Finally, she spoke. “If I promise I will be honest in all our conversations would you promise the same, my lord?”
Speculating on a person’s motives had become second-nature to Christian. What was it she hoped to uncover about him, should she secure such a promise? Why the insistence on coming to know him better? An arrangement such as theirs was practical and impersonal.
But Rebecca’s manners, her way of speaking to him, all seemed genuine enough.
And really, what was she asking him but what honor already demanded of him?
“I would.”
Rebecca’s eyes cleared, meeting his squarely. Her body relaxed and the hands in her lap stilled. “I make my promise then, to only speak the truth to you. I will never tell you a falsehood.�
�� Her brown eyes shone brightly, her expression challenging him.
He started to smile but bit the inside of his cheek to keep the expression from escaping. The woman had made her vow with sincerity. It would be insulting to show any sign of the amusement he felt.
“Very well. I promise the same. I will never lie to you, Miss Devon, on my honor.”
“Thank you.” Rebecca stood gracefully, staring down at him rather peculiarly as she began to explain. “It is important that I come to know and understand you, my lord. You see, I have made up my mind about something. I thought to keep it a secret, but this opportunity to speak to you so openly has changed things.”
Christian cleared his throat in an effort to conceal his amusement. The young woman was charming. But he had known several young ladies with the trait only to discover they had too many vices to redeem their virtues.
“You seem to be kind,” she said, her hands moving from her side to behind her back, where he imagined she clasped them together. “I hope you will not laugh at me.” Her cheeks started to turn pink.
The mystery of whatever she wished to say tugged at him, but Christian remained composed and kept his arms crossed before him.
“I will do my best to take this matter seriously, Miss Devon, should you ever actually present it to me.” Perhaps he was too curious now. He kept his jaw clamped shut over any further words, waiting.
Rebecca took in a deep breath. “I have decided to fall in love with you.”
Had she doused him with a bucket of water, or proclaimed herself queen, Christian could not have been more surprised. He stared, his mind refusing to take in her words while his traitorous heart gave a shockingly large leap. Clamping his emotions firmly, putting the offending organ in a strangle-hold of memory, Christian stood and took one step backward, away from Rebecca Devon and the danger she had just presented to him.
“Miss Devon,” he said, allowing numbness to overtake him. “I thank you for your honesty. Please excuse mine. That is a preposterous thing to say.”
Her cheeks went from pink to ash-white. “What?” she whispered.
Miss Devon's Choice: A Sweet Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 5) Page 8