“Indeed.” Morgan was thankfully distracted by the new arrivals being ushered into the room.
He greeted Lady Adderly and her slightly gawky, long-toothed daughter, then the Cornell family with assorted daughters and girl cousins in tow. Soon the room filled with high-pitched conversation. Morgan moved to and fro between his guests, aware that at every turn speculative female gazes were fastened upon him.
One good thing about choosing a lady to court: he would no longer have to suffer their avaricious and grasping mamas.
At length, just when he felt he was going to suffocate, Aunt Agatha rose and clapped her hands. The noise had little effect, so she stripped off her scarlet gloves and tried again. Heads turned at the sharp sound, and the babble subsided.
“We’re so pleased to have you all as our guests,” she said. “If you would repair to the drawing room, it’s time for the musical portion of the evening.”
A dozen pairs of eyes fixed on Morgan, and there was a general surge in his direction. Belatedly, he realized that all the young women were going to vie for his escort. Whether by luck or by artifice, Lady Anne was standing nearest. Morgan quickly offered his arm.
“Allow me to show you in,” he said.
A murmur of disappointment riffled through the room, and Lady Anne’s eyes lit.
“I would be delighted.” Her voice was high and breathy with excitement.
She settled her arm atop his and, under the approving gaze of Aunt Agatha, led her out of the red room. The rest of the guests followed. Out of the corner of his eye, Morgan was aware of jostling near the front of the group. He only hoped he would not be trampled to death by overeager young ladies in the halls of his own home.
The drawing room seemed farther away than usual. While Lady Anne did not cling to his arm, precisely, there was a limpet-like quality to her touch.
“Do you enjoy music?” he asked. It seemed a safe enough question.
“Very much, my lord! I play the pianoforte, and have been told I have some skill at it. And you? Who are your favorite composers?”
“The usuals.” He racked his brain, trying to come up with a few names. “Beethoven and, of course, Mendelssohn.”
“Beethoven is a bear to play.” She blushed. “Forgive me, I am too outspoken.”
Feeling a great deal older than Lady Anne, he patted her hand in reassurance. Fortunately, they had reached the open double doors of the drawing room, and there was no more need for stilted conversation. He escorted her to the front row.
“Will this do?” he asked.
“Splendidly.” She did not release his arm. “Do join me, my lord. And we must save a place for my mother.”
Morgan glanced about, hoping his aunt might step in, but she merely smiled at him from the back of the room.
He had not considered this aspect of the evening. No, all his focus had been on ensnaring Mr. Burke. While for the young ladies present, all their attention had been bent on ensnaring him.
The belated realization crept over him that he would not be able to absent himself from the musicale, as he’d done at Miss Lovell’s previous performances.
“It would be my pleasure to sit with you,” he said to Lady Anne.
She took a seat and beamed up at him, patting the chair beside her. Instantly, three nearby young ladies collided in a poorly concealed dash for the seat on his other side. One of the Cornell girls edged her cousin out and slid breathlessly into the chair. She gave Morgan a rather horsey smile.
“How kind of you to invite us,” she said. “I’ve heard such interesting things about the Gypsy Violinist. Is it true she’s secretly an Italian principessa?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Was Mr. Burke spreading such rumors, or had this gossip taken hold on its own? In either case, he didn’t care to add to the speculation.
“Yet it might be true.” Miss Cornell’s eyes shone with a romantic light.
“I heard she’s an orphan, plucked off the streets.” Lady Anne leaned forward and addressed Miss Cornell. “I have it on the best authority.”
Where had the Gypsy Violinist come from? And blast, here he was thinking of her again, when his attention ought to be on the assorted young ladies chatting and giggling in his drawing room. Miss Lovell was altogether too interesting for Morgan’s peace of mind.
Aunt Agatha rose from her chair at the end of the row. The guests quieted, voices fading to a low hum of anticipation.
“Ladies—and gentlemen.” Morgan’s aunt smiled at the few male figures scattered about the room. “Without further ado, let us welcome Miss Lovell to perform for us!”
A servant opened the door into the adjoining parlor. Miss Lovell stood there, her violin tucked under one arm. In the shadows behind, Mr. Burke hovered.
As she stepped into the drawing room to the patter of applause, Morgan glanced at his head footman. Thaddeus nodded, confirming he knew his duties for the evening: allow Mr. Burke the run of the mansion and keep out of his way.
Morgan had intended to try and watch the fellow, but no matter. The bait was there, set out enticingly for Mr. Burke to snatch. Perhaps it was just as well Morgan was trapped in his drawing room. It would keep him from arousing his quarry’s suspicions.
At the front of the room, Miss Lovell made a brief curtsy. Without a word of introduction, she tucked her violin beneath her chin and waited for quiet. The audience hushed, and into that silence, a long, sweet note blossomed.
Miss Lovell held the tone, the volume increasing until, with a sudden bow lift, she launched into a wild flurry of music. The sound made Morgan think of sparks flying up from a bonfire, the thrill of galloping his gray, Sterling, through the crisp morning air, the whip and spray of the sea crashing into stone.
Beside him, Miss Cornell tapped her fan against her leg in time with the music, while on his other side, he glimpsed Lady Anne’s toes moving up and down. It was music that called the body into motion, but he could not imagine the steps of a cotillion set to such an insistent, pulsing beat.
The Gypsy Violinist, indeed. She publicly skirted the edge of something wild and tumultuous, from her sensuous curves and loosely coiffed black hair to the thrumming perturbation of her music. For now, Society was titillated by her.
What would Miss Jessamyn Lovell become once the ton’s fascination with her faded? He did not want to contemplate her options. Not with a guardian so unwholesome as Mr. Burke.
Speaking of whom… Surreptitiously, Morgan scanned the drawing room. He was not surprised to find Mr. Burke absent. The man was a master of slipping away unnoticed.
A bright chord drew Morgan’s attention back to the front of the room, where Miss Lovell brought her first piece to a triumphant resolution.
The applause was immediate, and Lady Anne turned to him, her eyes shining.
“How thrilling,” she said. “Why, I nearly sprang up and began dancing.”
Then she laughed, a slightly artificial sound meant to convey to Morgan that of course a true lady would do no such thing. A pity, but then, the spark of originality was snuffed out of the young ladies of quality at a young age. He shouldn’t expect—or desire—anything different.
Miss Lovell bowed. “Thank you. I shall now play a ballade.”
Lady Anne clasped her hands. “Oh, is it a love song?”
A shadow moved through the violinist’s eyes. She hesitated a moment, then inclined her head. “I will say it is about love.”
This time the tune wound about, spiraling up and down on the violin. Miss Lovell swayed gently in place, her brows slightly pulled together. She finished the lower phrase, then ascended, her fingers flicking against the strings to make a curious sobbing sound.
If this was a love song, it was not filled with happiness.
But then, was that not the truth of love?
As the yearning notes continued, Morgan could not avoid thinking of his brother. Jonathan Trevethwick, heir to the earldom—the perfect, merry, golden fellow, who had fancied himsel
f invincible.
Until that fatal night, when the Trevethwick’s lives had, quite literally, crashed down into misery. Morgan’s chest burned with the memory. After Jonathan died, his father—already morose from Lady Silverton’s wasting illness and recent death—seemed to give up altogether. He descended into such destructive vices that it was a relief when he passed on, leaving the bitter fragments of the title for Morgan to reassemble.
Miss Lovell began to play two strings at once, the notes folding into harmony, then a keening disharmony, then back into solace. Her expression was distant, as though she viewed a faraway land, and it seemed she poured her own wistful soul into the music.
On Morgan’s right, Miss Cornell twisted her kerchief between her hands, and he heard a few discreet sniffles further back in the room. Anyone who had encountered loss could not help but be moved by the song unfurling from beneath the Gypsy Violinist’s fingers.
Slowly, the music grew softer, fading like evening light over distant hills. Morgan listened, straining to follow the faint thread of sound, but he could not discern the moment it ceased.
Miss Lovell stood motionless, her arm extended with just the tip of her bow perched on the string. She looked like a pagan muse, some goddess of lost love and shadows. The drawing room was utterly still for the space of two heartbeats, and Morgan could hear the inevitable tick of time in that moment.
Time—moving forward and taking the world with it, whether or not the world wanted to go. There was no escape from the future.
Then the audience applauded. To his right, Miss Cornell brought her hands together vigorously, while on his left, Lady Anne was less enthusiastic.
“I don’t think I much care for Gypsy love songs,” she said, wrinkling her petite nose. “It was rather… rustic. Don’t you think, my lord?”
“Love is not all sweet joy, Lady Anne.” He knew he sounded stuffy. Old. But he could not play the foolish games of youth.
“Of course not. I only meant it seemed an odd choice. Given the occasion.” She blushed and sent him a look from beneath her lashes.
Ah yes, the supposedly romantic nature of his musicale, wherein he would choose a lady to court. It seemed Lady Anne fancied herself in love with him. An easy enough fancy to have, he supposed. He was titled and wealthy, and handsome enough—at least, he’d believed so in the past. He was not the type of man who beat his animals or his servants, or derived satisfaction from cruel and debauched behavior. Certainly, Dearborn’s daughter could do worse than catch the Earl of Silverton.
He felt another set of eyes upon him, and glanced up to see Miss Lovell regarding him. Her gaze held far more depth than the guileless blue of Lady Anne, and he recognized what he saw there. Jessamyn Lovell knew sorrow, and tribulation, and a life dashed to pieces.
“We shall have one more tune,” he said, “and then a break for refreshments.”
Miss Lovell nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”
Deliberately breaking the somber mood she had evoked earlier, she commenced with a sprightly bit of music. No minor notes or low sighing, just sprays of brightness underpinned with a whirling rhythm that set toes tapping again.
Miss Lovell’s expression smoothed, the hint of a smile at one corner of her lush lips. When the tune ended, even Lady Anne applauded without reservation.
“That was delightful indeed,” she said, turning to him. Her eyes shone with anticipation. “What a splendid evening, my lord. I can scarcely wait for what comes next.”
Morgan’s mouth went dry, his neckcloth feeling too tight once again.
“Excuse me a moment, Lady Anne.” He raised the back of her gloved hand to his lips, then stood. “I’ll be back shortly—there’s a matter I must attend to.”
“Oh.” She blinked up at him. “Of course, Lord Silverton. I fervently await your return.”
As did all the young ladies and their mamas, judging by the eager looks cast his way as he strode from the drawing room.
Aunt Agatha followed him out, then grasped his arm once they had gained the hallway.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Can’t a man move about his own house without being detained?”
“Tsk. You can’t run away from this, Morgan. You know very well that tonight you’ll need to declare for one of those young ladies.” She sent a significant look at the drawing room door.
“I am fully aware of my duty,” he said.
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “If you persist in thinking it an unpleasant task, I fear for your future.”
“I must see to a bit of business first,” Morgan said. “And then, I shall make my selection. I promise.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Morgan pivoted to avoid the disappointment in his aunt’s eyes, and headed down the hall toward his study. Before he commenced selecting a wife, he must speak with his head footman to see if his plan had borne fruit. Had Mr. Burke done as anticipated, or was the man waiting for the second half of the evening to reveal his criminal intent?
As Morgan passed the small parlor, a flash of green silk caught his attention. Quietly, he moved to the half-open door and stood there, watching Miss Lovell.
She paced before the hearth, then stopped, facing the mantel. Head tilted, she seemed to be studying the knick-knacks on display: a Venetian glass teardrop—clear, with a swirl of scarlet inside, a tiny cloisonné box inlaid with flowers, a carved enamel dragon from the Orient, and a brass statuette of a nymph clad in flowing scarves. A cobalt vase of yellow lilies completed the arrangement.
Carefully, Miss Lovell picked up the glass tear and held it to the light.
“A pleasant trinket, isn’t it?” Morgan asked as he strode into the room. Anger hardened his voice. He’d thought better of her, but he supposed tainted blood would tell.
Miss Lovell let out a gasp and whirled to face him. The teardrop glinted between her fingers.
“Forgive me,” she said, her voice a bit breathless. “I was just admiring—”
“Yes, I see that.” He closed the distance between them and grasped her upraised hand, capturing both it and the glass she held. “Don’t drop it, I pray. A pity to break the bauble when you only meant to steal it.”
Color swept across her cheeks, and she stiffened. “I had no such intention!”
Morgan lifted one brow and leaned in close. He could smell the warmth of her skin, see the pulse beating in her neck, just below her jaw. The scent of lilies curled in the air about them.
Jessamyn Lovell stared up at him, wide-eyed, her full lips slightly parted. Without thinking, he bent his head and covered her mouth with his own. Heat raced over him, a lightning flash of long-pent desire scorching him down to the soles of his feet. All he could do was hold on to her, tasting her sweet lips, feeling her body sway into his.
Closer, closer—his free hand slipped around her back and pulled her against him. Her palm slid up over his shoulder, and he was lost in the fire. She fitted perfectly in his arms, and he wanted to lick his tongue into her mouth, trail kisses along that graceful neck and bare shoulder, cup her breasts and…
Damnation. He tore his mouth from hers and set her at arm’s length.
Her chest rose and fell in deep exhalations, her cheeks flushed. “Lord Silverton, I am not the wanton you seem to think me.”
His apology died on his lips at her protest.
“You appeared to enjoy my kiss well enough, Miss Lovell. No screams of maidenly outrage, no slap across the face.”
Although she had not kissed like an experienced lover. Her lips had been willing, but unsure beneath his.
She glanced down at the hearth rug, then back up to him. “Would you prefer I make a scene in you parlor, sir? Especially on this evening, when it is rumored you are about to make some well-bred lady the object of your affections?”
Guilt put him on the defensive. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve never been kissed before, Miss Lovell?”
“I have been.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not
that it is any business of yours.”
“Some fumbling Gypsy boy, I’d guess.”
She clenched her hands, the glass teardrop still in her fist. “Make up your mind, sir. Either I am an experienced courtesan, or an unschooled country wench. I can hardly be both.”
He was being unkind to her, it was true.
“I suspect you are neither a wanton nor a complete innocent.” He softened his tone. “Like most women, you are far too complicated. And I behaved in a most ungentlemanly manner.”
Ungentlemanly, but he could not be sorry that the feel of her lips still burned against his mouth. Though he was utterly displeased with himself, it was hardly fair to castigate her for his own failings.
“Indeed.” Her tone was cool.
He held out his palm. “Give me the bauble.”
She set the scarlet-streaked glass in his hand, then lifted her chin and met his gaze. “I had no intention of taking anything from you, Lord Silverton.”
“Yet I stole a kiss from you.” And what a catastrophic loss of control that had been.
She looked on the verge of replying, when Mr. Burke’s voice sounded in the hall. A moment later, he stepped into the parlor, followed by Thaddeus.
“There you are,” Mr. Burke said, his gaze darting from Morgan to his niece. He smiled, but it was more a baring of teeth.
Morgan inclined his head. “I was just offering Miss Lovell this small trinket, in thanks for her fine performance so far.”
He held the glass teardrop out to her.
“It’s not necessary, my lord,” she said, her eyes widening.
“Oh, take the thing.” Mr. Burke stalked forward. “If a man offers you gewgaws, never turn him down.”
He reached for the teardrop, and Miss Lovell quickly snatched it up before he could touch it.
“Thank you.” She folded her fingers around the glass and gave Morgan a small curtsy.
“Morgan!” Aunt Agatha rushed into the room, the scarlet plume in her coiffure bobbing with agitation. “Whatever are you doing, lurking back here in the parlor? Your presence is required in the drawing room. With your eager guests.”
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