A Melody for Rose (The Wednesday Club Book 2)

by Sahara Kelly

  Welcoming Miles in was disconcerting, but she relaxed immediately as his gaze wandered over the soft green walls, the shining floor and the instruments lying silent, waiting for the skilled hands of a musician to bring them to life.

  Drawn by the pianoforte, he walked over to it and glanced at her with eyebrows raised.

  “Please. Go ahead.” She waved her hand at it, knowing he was itching to touch it. “I’d like to hear you play again.”

  Eagerly he sat, lifted the lid and settled himself.

  Then he ran his hands over the keys, and the expression of pleasure on his face was so breathtaking… Her heart thudded, stopped, started again and turned itself upside down in her chest. It was at that very moment she understood how stupid she’d been. He was surrounded by all the colours that existed and more. His fingers drew pinks and peaches from the sounds; the chords he played mixed them with the teal of a sunlit ocean and the vivid shades of sunset.

  There was no mistaking it—the unthinkable had happened.

  She’d somehow managed to fall in love with him.

  *~~*~~*

  Miles let his hands create standard arpeggios, loving the exquisite sound of a perfectly tuned instrument. But his focus, if not his gaze, was on the woman watching him. He could almost feel her energy, and her joy. This room was indeed her sanctum, and he could find no better word for it.

  She stood still as he settled in to the keys, learning their touch, understanding the techniques that would produce the best sounds. He was no professional pianist, but he played from somewhere deep in his heart. It was all about the pleasure and delight of the music for him, not the brilliance of his technique. And somehow, he believed that Rose shared his belief.

  He stopped, letting the tones die away softly, and looked at her. “This is a beautiful pianoforte. And the acoustics? Perfect.”

  She blinked, as if drawn back to the moment. “Yes,” she nodded. “Someone, a long time ago, had this room designed for music. I don’t fully understand the principles, but the walls and ceiling are shaped to provide the most pleasing sound.”

  Miles glanced up. “I’ll wager Mowbray could explain it. But I agree, I don’t understand the principles either. And truly, neither of us need to.” He flexed his fingers again. “Will you try the music I brought? I am very curious to hear it.”

  “Oh…” she turned. “Yes, of course. Here it is.”

  Retrieving the sheets from a side table, where the servant had left it for her, she crossed the room and picked up her harp-lute, stroking it gently with her hand. It was an affectionate gesture that told Miles volumes about Rose’s love for music and that instrument in particular.

  Completely unselfconscious, she pulled up a chair and settled herself, the music stand holding the manuscript at the ideal height. A quick ripple of sound, a turn or two of the strings, and she was ready, glancing at Miles with a nervous smile.

  “I hope it’s not too difficult.”

  He snorted. “For you? Is anything?”

  “Yes. Bach.”

  He laughed. “Very well. I will allow that.”

  He waited as she briefly glanced at the first few bars, then leaned forward a little. Then leaned back again with a slight frown, but bent to her instrument.

  It had a unique sound. The soft rolling tones of a harp married to the sharper snap of a guitar, and blended as a whole into something familiar and yet distinct.

  Miles closed his eyes and let the notes roll over him; a bright tune, a sweet and simple melody made richer by the brilliant use of the strengths of the harp-lute. Some passages focused on the harp, gentle and soothing, only to be met with a counterpoint from the rich and full range of a guitar. He couldn’t have described it in words but knew it was simply wonderful music.

  She came to the end…it was a short air, but one he felt would be quite popular once played in public.

  “Magnificent,” he breathed. “Just lovely. You played that without a hitch, too, Rose. I’m very impressed. One might well be excused for thinking you knew it already.” He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Congratulations. An incredible performance.”

  “Don’t congratulate me,” she answered in an odd tone.

  “Why?”

  “I am familiar with this piece, Miles.” She paused.

  He had to take a moment to absorb her words. “I don’t understand.”

  “I wrote it.”

  For a moment or two, words failed him. Then he managed a strangled sound. “What?”

  “I wrote it.”

  “You wrote it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how? How could you write it?” He was having trouble with his ears, he decided. Perhaps an accidental B flat had wedged itself in there and was masking every third word she said.

  “Just like everyone else, I suppose,” she raised an eyebrow. “With a pen and some blank sheets of music.”

  He frowned. “Very funny.” Taking a breath, he stood and walked to her side, looking over her shoulder at the manuscript. “You’re telling me this is a piece you wrote?”

  “Not just telling you, I can show you. I can prove it.” She stood, walked past him and went to a small cabinet beneath the window. As she opened it Miles saw stacks of music, and she removed one from a pile on the lowest shelf. “This is where I keep my own works.”

  She returned and picked up the first sheet, holding it next to the one on the music stand.

  Miles stared. There was no mistaking it.

  They were identical.

  “What the…” His indrawn breath echoed around the room. “I bought this from Selwyn Dunstable. He said he’d just received it from a music publisher.”

  “I’ve heard of him. Mr Dunstable has an excellent reputation,” she said noncommittally.

  “I thought so.” Miles continued to stare at the music. “Which begs a question.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “How did he, or the publisher he bought it from…how did anyone get a copy of something I wrote several months ago, and until today had never showed to anyone or played for anyone but myself?”

  Miles left her side and paced, his mind turning upside down, rolling over, furiously churning out possibilities. But he could see no connection whatever between Rose, Beauchamp Place, and some small music publisher elsewhere in London, leading to Selwyn and Nota Bene. If the publisher even was in London.

  “I think this is something I need to look into, Rose.”

  “No.”

  He blinked and turned to her. “Why ever not?”

  “It’s not something you need to look into, Miles. It’s something we need to look into.” She came to his side and put her hand on his arm. “This is about my music. My colours. You understand, being a musician yourself, the personal attachment I have to every single note on that page. You cannot possibly even think of excluding me from any enquiries you choose to make about this matter…”

  Her tone was firm, her gaze steady on his, brown eyes wide. He knew she was right, and although his male instincts were telling him that he’d be best left to this task alone, he simply could not bring himself to tell her that.

  “All right,” he sighed. “We will investigate this business. But should there be any reason for concern as we go forward, Rose, you will follow my directions. Promise me.”

  She lifted her chin. “I can’t see any reason why there would be cause for such concerns, but of course I will be guided by your suggestions, Miles.” She grinned then, touching his arm. “As the good and obedient improperly engaged fiancée I’m supposed to be.”

  He couldn’t resist a quick dip of the head and a soft kiss on her forehead. “Thank you.”

  He felt her shiver and saw her lick her lips—in a flash the moment turned to something more.

  And there was a tap on the door, followed by a servant’s head appearing around it. “Excuse me, my Lord, Miss. Mrs Glynde-Beauchamp would like to know if you’d care for tea?”

  Miles cursed luridly beneath his breath, as
Rose answered in the negative.

  “We must go,” she sighed as the servant left the room.

  “Yes, I know, and it’s past time for me to take my leave,” he agreed, taking her arm and leading her out of the door. “But very soon, I will need to talk to you about a connected matter.”

  She turned her head. “Which matter is that, Miles?”

  “Colours.”

  She swallowed. “Ah. Yes, I suppose we should.” She bit her lip. “I fully expect that afterwards you may wish to become improperly un-engaged.”

  Miles would like to have answered, but they had reached the hall. He had to content himself with a formal farewell and a promise to see her soon.

  As far as being improperly un-engaged?

  Not a bloody chance.

  Chapter Twelve

  Word spread, as such things were wont to do in the small, overflowing pot of gossip that was London. So Rose wasn’t terribly surprised to receive and imperious summons from Lydia to join them for a light luncheon the next day.

  Judith had returned, so this was to be not only a reunion with her, but a chance to share news. That word had been heavily underlined, and Rose didn’t need an interpreter to understand why.

  She spent quite a bit of time going over her stratagem. Should she reveal the truth to her friends? If she did, would it somehow escape and ruin both her and Miles’s plan?

  She was well aware that if it did get out, then not only their plans would be ruined, but she would probably be ruined as well, and that was a sobering thought. For herself, she wasn’t terribly bothered at the prospect of leaving London, which she would most certainly have to do. But it might pose some serious problems for Miles, should he find the right woman some time later.

  That thought sent a pang of jealousy through her; the vision of Miles with someone else was not one designed to incur a joyous sentiment in her breast. As opposed to the image of being wed to him, which incurred many sentiments, some of which were in her breasts and other areas. She accepted that she was physically attracted to him. He was a very handsome man with a smile that ignited a lot of female things in female places.

  She’d also shared in the reading of a quite scandalous book, Cerulean Tales, written by a woman for women. Having been passed around beneath the cover of fans, mufflers, scarves and servants’ aprons, Rose, Lydia, Ivy and Judith had all read most of it. And it had been very educational with regard to the intimacies between lovers.

  So, unlike too many of her contemporaries, Rose had a fuller understanding of desire and the things that went along with it. She desired Miles on a purely feminine level. There had been more than a few times when she’d wondered what it would be like to have him touch her and to be able to touch him. Such thoughts had fired her imagination, and there was a new musical work in progress; sensual, almost erotic in tone, that proved an outlet for the feelings her emotions engendered. Whether she’d ever play it in public or not was still in question. But the morning before her meeting with Lydia, Rose took an hour to finish the piece.

  When the final note was added, the final staff closed, and the whole assembled, she played it through. Just once.

  She ended with an ache low in her belly, a yearning for that smile that warmed her, and an eagerness to sample the taste of those lips that curved just so when he was amused.

  So why not do it?

  The thought darted into her mind on a bolt of erotic lightning. They were sort of engaged. They would be spending time together, of course, since their plan was to dissuade others from involving either of them in the marriage mart.

  She had no illusions about her suitability for Miles. Besides her merely respectable lineage, there was her strange ability to see music in colours. And in her darkest moments, Rose herself wondered if it would lead to insanity. It was a fear she could not dismiss, and one she tried to control. Mostly she succeeded, but now it reared its ugly head.

  Instead of fretting, though, she stared absently at the music. It was all tones of pinks, peaches, pale pastels and rich ripe berries. Warm in places, hot in others, it was an arousing melody that stroked rainbows of richly erotic shades into existence as she played it. It was sweat and heat and passion, skin to skin, lips to lips—and whatever other body parts might be involved.

  It was want and need set to music. And it surprised Rose, since she had no idea she had such thoughts within her, let alone the ability to turn them into a melody such as this.

  However, it was done. Finished. She blew gently on the last entries, making sure the ink was dry, and—on a whim—added a tiny little drawing of a rose at the bottom of the page. Then she stacked them in the usual spot, closing the cupboard tightly. The question of her last composition arose in her mind, and she once again turned over the question of who might have stolen it. Or copied it.

  Logic dictated that it had to have been replicated, since if it was gone, she would have noticed it.

  Or would she?

  It had often been as much as a week between trips to the music room, especially recently with the Almack’s fuss and bother. Could it have been stolen and copied during one of those weeks? How long would it take? A dozen sheets of music might well be reproduced in a morning by someone with minimal musical knowledge.

  She sighed. This was pointless and best discussed with Miles. Which brought her thoughts back around to the man, the improper engagement, and her upcoming luncheon.

  Rose chuckled as she walked into Davenport Place an hour later. Perhaps she could quiz Judith on the delights of marriage. If Lydia hadn’t already done so.

  “Rose…” The squeal of delight echoed through the room as she gave her cloak and bonnet to a servant.

  Lady Judith Withersby dashed pell-mell across the foyer and ended up delivering a massive hug.

  “Ooof.”

  “Sorry,” giggled Judith. “But I’m so very happy to see you. I missed everyone a lot, even though I was on my honeymoon. So it is just marvellous to be back among my friends.”

  Rose hugged her back, knowing that Judith’s friends were as important to her as they were to Rose herself. A tight bond had formed last autumn between Judith, Rose, Lydia and Ivy. They all knew it, valued it, and were determined to keep it strong.

  “We missed you too, my Lady,” laughed Rose. “Are the others here already?”

  “We’re waiting for Ivy,” called Lydia from the door of the parlour. “Come along in and warm yourself. Another bitter day…”

  Judith and Rose obeyed, hurrying in, Rose heading for the fireplace and holding out her hands in front of it. “So, my dear, do tell us. How is married life?” She glanced at Judith. “All the details, please.”

  “Well now, hold on there,” said Lydia. “Firstly, let’s get Ivy here, and secondly, I think we should begin with you, Miss Rose. I’ve heard rumours.”

  Rose sighed.

  “As have I.” Ivy Siddington stood at the door, her cheeks rosy from the wind. “And move over, if you would. I walked from the seamstress and both my maid and I are near-frozen.” She rubbed her hands and approached the fire, standing next to Rose and giving her a look of great interest.

  “Oh dear.”

  “Don’t give us an oh dear, Rose.” Lydia sat down on the coach and stared at her friend. “We want to know what’s happening.”

  “With what?” blinked Rose innocently.

  “Oh darling,” laughed Judith. “With Miles, silly girl. What else?”

  “He’s not a what, he’s a who,” she remonstrated. “And…well, I suppose we’re sort of almost engaged.”

  There was a moment of silence as the other three digested her statement.

  Judith was the first to recover. “What the devil does that mean?”

  *~~*~~*

  Miles had awoken that same morning, with an unusual feeling of eager anticipation.

  It was odd indeed, since he wasn’t usually at his best before noon. He could think, carry on a conversation, and be generally polite to the world, but he prefer
red silence, or at least quiet, until he felt his entire essence of self had thoroughly awoken.

  He was, as his valet Claude tended to opine on occasion, un ours le matin. Accepting that yes, he probably was a bit of a bear in the morning, today’s feeling was out of line.

  Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he had a task ahead of him which intrigued him. Solving the mystery behind Rose’s purloined manuscript presented a challenge, something he relished, and something that he hadn’t found in his life recently. Ideas swirled as he breakfasted, avenues of investigation were considered and discarded.

  The thought that many of these avenues might be traversed with Rose at his side…well, it was not the worst thing that could happen. In fact, it might be rather fun.

  He blinked at his eggs and bacon. The entire concept of having fun like this, with a woman? Unusual, to say the least. But then again, so was the lady herself.

  She’d handled herself with poise and aplomb when the music problem had arisen, but Miles could only guess at her true feelings. What must it be like to see something you yourself created presented as the work of someone else?

  The sheets of music had no author citation, just the name of the work—An Air upon the Dawn of Spring.

  A bit pretentious, and he pretty much knew Rose wouldn’t have come up with anything like that, even though it fit the music quite well. He pondered the matter as he finished his tea, then turned as the door opened.

  “Morning, Miles.” Mowbray sauntered in and wandered to the sideboard. “Can you spare some breakfast?”

  Miles gazed speculatively at the half dozen or so covered platters. “Hmm. I’m not sure.”

  Mowbray shook his head and helped himself to a large plate of sausages, eggs, kidneys and toast. “The bacon plate is empty.”

  “Tsk.” Miles shook his head and made a fine show of finishing off his last rasher.

  “Pig.” His brother addressed him affectionately as he sat down.