by Sahara Kelly
Rose swallowed, her insides curdling at the plan laid out for her future. “Am I allowed no choice? Am I not to find love, Aunt?”
Silence fell for a few moments, as both ladies seemed to search for the right response.
“We’d both like for that to happen, Rose.” Her mama answered quietly. “But it isn’t a necessity for a good match. You’d better get used to the idea now, before it’s too late.”
“But…what about…my music?”
Mrs Glynde-Beauchamp shuddered. “We will not mention that. Of course it would be nice if your husband enjoyed music, but other than that…well, the whole matter is best not raised at all. Do you understand?”
Words failed her. She simply nodded, dropped a slight curtsey to them both and left the room. Slowly she walked upstairs, her mind numb, her thoughts scattered around a future suddenly turned much darker. It was no surprise that marriage was on the minds of her family. She was older than most of the debutantes thanks to the modest solitude imposed by the mourning period. But last autumn had been such fun.
Spending time with Lydia, Ivy and Judith…well it was almost a shame that Judith’s marriage had fractured their little group, even though she’d promised to be back in London soon.
The Christmas season had broken everyone up even further.
For Rose, the only one permanently residing in London, the last few weeks had been quiet and somewhat lonely. She turned along the corridor and passed by her room, moving on to the larger one at the very end.
It was the music room, and in there was her solace, her friend, and in all honestly…her passion.
She opened the door, loving the way the cold winter light danced off the shining pianoforte, the music stands—and her very best friend.
Her harp-lute.
Chapter Two
The honour of hosting one of the first events of the new year had fallen to the Earl and Countess of Derby; thus it was that Rose and her mama found themselves in the elegant ballroom of Derby House early in February. The musicale scheduled for the evening was to feature a soprano from Italy, a performance by one of her favourite pianists, and, without a doubt, a lot of enthusiastic socialising.
She both eagerly anticipated the music and dreaded the thought of being paraded around like a prize cow up for sale. Although her mama would have fainted at the idea of a price affixed to her daughter’s bosom, Rose felt as if there was one firmly in place as she met speculative stares from other mamas, a few from gentlemen who had no business staring at her chest, and noticed similar looks of masked despair on the faces of her contemporaries.
Is this what my life is going to be about?
The question crossed her mind as she settled herself into her seat. At least she could look forward to an evening of good music. She tried to take solace from that. And the first performer, Maestro Silvio Fortuna, delighted them all, including Rose, with his light and nuanced interpretation of Schubert, presenting an Impromptu in A-flat, and a sonata which Rose thought might be the one in A major, but couldn’t be sure.
She willingly stood with the rest of the audience, and applauded energetically at the end of his performance, her heart lifted out of the doldrums on the magic created by a man, a pianoforte and the genius of a great composer. It had always been thus for Rose. Music had been her comfort, her solace, her joy—and when she began learning to play and make it herself—her frustration.
But tonight was just what she needed, balm to her downcast spirits. Surely in a city where such music was routinely presented, life couldn’t be so bad?
She followed her mother as they made their way to the enormous dining room where refreshments had been set out for the guests. Rose knew that the ballroom was probably being prepared for the next performance, and she happily helped herself to some delicious biscuits, a few lobster patties and one modest sweetmeat made of marzipan.
“Would you care to share? I’ll swap three of those biscuits for two of these cheese tarts…”
The voice sounded over her shoulder and she twisted her neck around to see Lord Miles Linfield grinning at her. “Oh, hello. You’re back from the country then?”
“No. I’m merely a figment of your imagination. I do applaud your choice of fantasies, however, since I am nothing if not dream material. But I’m also quite peckish, having missed dinner. So…can we do a food exchange?”
Rose chuckled. She and Miles Linfield had become acquainted late the year before, so she stood on no ceremony with him at all. “If you must. But touch my lobster patties and you will lose at least one finger if not two.” Her threat was made with a direct and challenging stare.
“Tsk,” he frowned. “Such impudence.” He removed most of her biscuits and replaced them with his cheese tarts.
“Such an appetite,” she raised her eyebrows, noticing the mound of food he’d gathered.
“I told you. I missed dinner.” He glanced around. “Shall we sit? I think I see two chairs over there…”
Rose looked for her mama and found her deep in conversation with another matronly lady. Terrified that marriage might be the topic under discussion, Rose eagerly agreed to Miles’s suggestion and followed him through the crowd to the seats that were miraculously empty. Such a thing would never have done at a ball, but a musicale boasted more informality.
“Oh that’s nice,” he sighed, sitting down and stretching his spine. “Fortuna was excellent. I wish I could say the same about the Earl’s chairs.”
“Agreed on both counts.” She bit into a lobster patty, closed her eyes and hummed with pleasure. “These make up for the discomfort.”
Next to her, Miles was doing the same thing. “Oh lord, you are absolutely right.”
They enjoyed their food in silence for a few moments, then Miles sighed with pleasure and rested his plate on his knee. “So you are interested in music, if I remember correctly. You said something musical a while ago.”
Rose looked at him, somewhat incredulously. “Er…I might have done, yes…?”
He shrugged. “Can’t recall what it was, just some comment that made me think you liked it.” He grinned. “I tend to latch on to odd things like that. It runs in the family.”
She carefully moved her plate away from him. “Like Mowbray and his…occasional…um…misfortunes?”
“No,” said Miles firmly. “No, I don’t trip over or break things. That’s his specialty. I just seem to have a mind that likes odd remarks or facts and remembers them. Not a clue why.” He sighed. “But I was asking you about music. Do you play anything?”
Amused and intrigued by his conversation, Rose couldn’t help smiling at him. “Other than the fool now and again, I do, as a matter of fact, yes.”
Her comment was met with a grin. “Let me guess. Pianoforte and violin?”
“Yes and no.”
“Well I’m glad we cleared that up then.” He chuckled.
“I meant, sir,” she remonstrated, “Yes, I play pianoforte but no, not the violin.”
“Ah. Now I understand.”
“And the harp-lute.”
“Oh.” Miles turned in his chair, looking somewhat surprised. “You do?”
“I do. I took lessons for about a year when I was younger. I do enjoy it.”
“An interesting instrument. I would love to hear you play, Miss Glynde-Beauchamp.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please call me Rose? Having a long surname can be a dratted nuisance sometimes, not to mention an utter conversation stopper.”
“Very well, Miss Rose.” He grinned at her. “And you must call me Miles.”
Her eyebrows drifted upward, reflecting her shock. “I must not, sir. Not at all. Not ever. Should my mother hear even a whisper along those lines, she’d be hinting about future plans, settlements and so on.” She shuddered. “With the greatest respect, I would infinitely prefer that not happen.”
He kept his eyes on her face. “You too?”
That astonished her. “Don’t tell me your mama is on at you to marry
as well?”
“Of course.” He took her now-empty plate, stacked it on top of his, and put both of them behind a large plant. “I believe there’s some sort of disturbance in the aether surrounding mothers as spring approaches. They’re bound and determined to get their offspring settled, as they call it.”
“I know what I call it,” said Rose morosely.
“Do tell.”
She flashed him a quick look. “I’d better not.”
“That bad?”
“And then some,” she sighed. “And, if I’m not mistaken, I see Mama’s feather approaching, which means Mama is beneath it and looking for me.” She stood. “I will have to introduce you. I apologise in advance.”
“I’ve already met Mrs Glynde-Beauchamp. Last November, I think. Just in passing, but…” he swallowed as the implications hit him. “Oh dear.”
“Exactly.” Rose raised her chin. “Gird your loins, sir. She’s drawing ever closer.”
*~~*~~*
It was every bit as bad as Rose had predicted.
Miles knew the moment Mrs Glynde-Beauchamp put a name to his face, because hers was suddenly wreathed in warm smiles.
“Lord Linfield, how lovely.” She allowed him to bow and kiss her hand, favouring him with an even larger smile. “I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with Rose?”
“We met late last year, Ma’am. A shared interest in books—Hookham’s, was it not, Miss Glynde-Beauchamp?”
“It might have been, yes.” Rose nodded calmly. “And you probably don’t recall, Mama, but his Lordship joined a party of us just before Christmas. I think you might have been introduced at that time, but it was very busy that evening.”
The woman looked a little confused, and Miles bit back a grin. He could almost hear her mind working to comprehend how she could have missed the fact that an eligible parti was in the same vicinity as her unmarried daughter. “Oh. Well, lovely to see you again, my Lord,” she said effusively. “You must join us for the rest of the concert. I insist.”
Since there were sounds coming from the ballroom indicating that the second half of the programme was about to commence, Miles simply bowed and offered her his arm. “I would be honoured, Ma’am.”
He tried very hard to ignore the tiny snicker he heard over his shoulder as Rose followed dutifully behind.
However, he did manage to escort both ladies into their seats, arranging it so that he was last to enter the row and thus seated next to Rose, which was not accidental in any way at all.
She intrigued him.
She had done since the first time he’d set eyes on her at the Sydenham’s. There was something about her he’d not found in other women. Or young ladies, he corrected himself. Her skin was exemplary; a pale porcelain with touches of pink in her cheeks and a particularly delightful sprinkling of freckles, which he wagered she did her best to hide. Her hair changed in different lights, in daylight she was a brunette, but here, in the light of the massive chandeliers and their flickering candles, her locks were transformed to a dusky beauty with fiery red glints appearing like magic. He wondered how they’d look spread out on his pillow.
And froze.
Dear God, what the hell was he thinking? They’d both exchanged opinions on the dangers of mothers with marital battle plans. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped into marriage.
But then again, he was also still a man, and one who could appreciate the finer points of a lovely young woman. She certainly hadn’t demonstrated any of the characteristics he always found so bloody irritating in her peers. She didn’t simper, giggle, flutter her eyelashes—why they did that, he had no idea since few ballrooms featured gnats that could get into one’s eye—or blushingly idiotic comments. She hadn’t asked if he was enjoying himself, or if he knew Byron. He’d met the chap, hadn’t been impressed with his enormously self-serving arrogance, and preferred to move on to other topics of conversation.
Sadly, most of the eligible young ladies that littered society like flowers around a Maypole didn’t have any.
Perhaps that’s why he found Rose unusually interesting. She seemed unaware of him as a man in that she didn’t attempt to flirt at all, conversed in a sensible fashion and demonstrated an excellent sense of humour. She was certainly pleasant to look at, and unafraid to be quiet when the moment demanded it, as it did now. She looked comfortable, settled into the hard chair, her ankles properly crossed and her hands in her lap. And yet he could tell she was absorbing the soaring beauty of the soprano who was living up to her advance billing.
He too settled back to listen. And try to clear his mind of Miss Rose Glynde-Beauchamp.
Closing his eyes, he caught a slight fault in the singer’s rendition of an aria from Rossini’s new opera, the Barber of Seville. Miles loved the entire thing, had managed to see it at the theatre more than a few times, and had heard the great Catalani perform this same aria. He doubted anyone would notice the slip, and indeed as he opened his eyes and glanced around, the audience continued to appear charmed at the performance.
Rose’s gaze was focused on the musicians and the singer, but he felt that her mind wasn’t taking in the details. He was convinced she did what he himself did on so many occasions—lost herself in the sheer beauty of the sound.
He always found it miraculous that the human body could produce notes to rival the finest birdsong, and that instruments had been created to emphasise and enhance such sounds. Music, to him, was the ultimate wonder.
Perhaps it was to Rose as well.
Which was an interesting, and slightly frightening thought, when combined with the whole hair-on-his-pillow vision.
Perhaps it was time for him to pay a call on his somewhat neglected mistress. Madame Solange DuPres, who had begun life as Sally Peters, would doubtless be happy to see him, and he could certainly guarantee he’d enjoy his time with her.
But for some reason, the notion no longer appealed to him the way it had last year. He sighed. Perhaps he was getting old and his mother was right. He should find a wife, settled down, raise a parcel of brats and while away the rest of his life either hunting—which he hated—reading, managing Linfield Lisle and visiting the Opera now and again.
God, no. He closed his eyes, trying to let the music block out the rather dull grey future he’d mapped out for himself. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
A kick in the ankle made him sit up and blink.
“Wake up,” whispered Rose. “She’s almost finished.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” he whispered back.
“Shhh.” She held a finger to her lips as the soprano managed to successfully hit the high, final note of the aria, holding it until the last reverberation had faded away.
There was silence for several heartbeats…and then the applause began, a low rumble becoming a massive outcry of delight and congratulations. Miles willingly rose and joined in; he’d enjoyed the music and the singing and wasn’t afraid to show it. He might be a tad picky about perfection, but that didn’t stop him from demonstrating his appreciation for an impressive talent.
Several “curtain calls” later—and along with a large bouquet presented by the Earl of Derby—the evening ended. Miles couldn’t help but wonder if the Earl might continue his with the soprano, since his gaze appeared to have become glued to the lady’s bounteous assets.
“That was quite lovely, wasn’t it?” said Rose as she gathered her things.
“Most enjoyable, yes,” he endorsed, passing back her reticule as it dropped from her hands onto his chair.
“Thank you.” She nodded, then leaned toward him casually. “She missed a high note near the end. It was a bit…purple.”
Miles was puzzled by her phrasing, but impressed. He blinked at the young woman buttoning her gloves. “You heard that?”
“Of course.” She glanced up. “But I cannot fault the rest of her performance. And please…” She turned again, making sure only he could hear. “Don’t say anything? I might sound like some idiotic know-it-all.�
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“My lips are sealed, Miss Rose.”
She grinned. “Thank you.” She nodded as he stepped back, allowing her and her mother to leave the row before him.
“A lovely evening, my Lord,” said Mrs Glynde-Beauchamp, a beaming smile on her face.
“Indeed, Ma’am,” he bowed. “Most delightful.”
“I trust we shall have the honour of seeing you again soon,” she added as she let him lead her out of the ballroom in Rose’s wake. “Do come to tea in the near future? We’d be very happy to welcome you, especially since you’re fond of music.” She squeezed his arm. “Dear Rose has such talent in that area. Perhaps we can persuade her to play for you. I’m convinced you will be quite enchanted by her skill.”
“A strong incentive indeed, Ma’am. I’ll keep it in mind.” He smiled and bowed as he released her into the throng of guests seeking their coats, their maids, their servants and their coaches.
Rose diligently urged her Mama into the right line and glanced at Miles. She shrugged. “I warned you,” she mouthed.
He nodded. “I know,” he mouthed back.
Then he gave her a little salute and turned away. He had a call to pay. But to his surprise, he found himself aware that it would be a final visit. He’d lost interest in that direction.
It had been replaced by a budding fascination for a certain Rose.
Chapter Three
The week after the musicale, Sydenham House was not unlike the fairytale princess Briar Rose awakening from her long nap.
“Hobson, you continue to work miracles, old chap. Don’t know how you do it, don’t want to. But we’re damned fortunate to have you.” Sir Laurence surveyed his home with pleasure, noting the shining floors, dust-free shelves, and above all, the decanter of brandy on a side table next to a nicely roaring fire.