The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Lord Albury,” she began.

  “Lady Eustacia,” he immediately responded, in an aloof and utterly bored tone that all but screamed she was wasting her time.

  But she wasn’t a lady easily cowed; she seized the opening. “Please—call me Stacie.” She held his gaze and relaxed her lips into a charmingly inviting smile. “Everyone does.”

  He didn’t blink. “I’ve rarely thought of myself as ‘everyone.’”

  So he’s determined to be difficult. Her smile deepened; two could play that game. “Indeed, you are quite unique, my lord”—from the corner of her eye, she saw his mother battle to stifle a snort—“which is the primary reason I’ve sought this meeting, so that I may lay before you a proposition that I believe will appeal to your musical interests.”

  He cast about for some sharp riposte, but what could he say? In the end, he arched a languid brow, inviting her to proceed.

  “As you’re doubtless aware, for many years—decades, in fact—ton hostesses have made a point of hiring foreign musicians to perform at all their musical events throughout the Season.” That wasn’t what he’d expected her to speak of; she detected faint confusion surfacing behind his eyes. Holding his gaze, she continued, “Those musicians come from France, Italy, Spain—even Germany and Russia. Indeed, many of the current crop of musicians lauded on the Continent were, as they say, ‘discovered’ here. They arrived in England as mere hopefuls and, through becoming the protégés of powerful hostesses, built a following here and, eventually, returned to their own country with money, experience, and a reputation they wouldn’t otherwise have gained.”

  He was frowning faintly. “I’m aware of how the world of music operates, Lady Eustacia.”

  “Stacie,” she reminded him. “And I expect you are. But have you ever considered the consequent plight of our local English musicians?”

  He blinked, and she went on, “Consider, if you will—our musicians do not travel to the Continent. Even if they made the journey, while there are similar musical events—salons, musicales—held in all European capitals, the performers for those are drawn from the ranks of local musicians who have returned after making their name in England. London—and Edinburgh, admittedly, but given the sheer number of events, London most especially—is the crucible in which musicians’ fortunes are forged.”

  He nodded somewhat curtly, but he was listening now. When she’d appealed to his mother, her companion, and his sisters regarding her scheme, all had agreed the idea was brilliant, but that it was impossible to get Albury to do anything he did not wish to; apparently, he was one of those men who was highly resistant to being managed and, conversely, always insisted on getting his own way.

  However, his cooperation was vital for the achievement of Stacie’s goal and her pursuit of the purpose in life she’d crafted as her own—an undertaking that suited her perfectly, given her longstanding appreciation of and devotion to classical music performances.

  In light of that, she’d elected to view recruiting Albury as a challenge to her manipulative wiles, a legitimate use of the innate talent she’d inherited from her mother. At least in this, she could put that native skill to good use.

  “As I’m sure you’ll agree,” she went on, “we English are not devoid of musical talent—your own ability gives that the lie.” She didn’t dare shift her gaze from his eyes; she was still feeling her way with him, trying to gauge his reactions via his irritatingly impassive countenance. “However, exceptional musical talent is not in any way linked to wealth or social rank. Consequently, while through a handful of long-ago performances in your mother’s and sisters’ drawing rooms, you attained fame”—his face abruptly hardened, and she held up a placating hand—“a fame I accept you did not seek and have little use for, but that, nonetheless, you easily gained, worthy English musicians from less-exalted social ranks find the hostesses’ doors are closed to them, and therefore, the ton’s eyes are shut to them. They have no opening—no stage on which they might prove themselves and so achieve the standing of soloist. No matter how wonderfully talented they are, the best our local musicians can hope for is a position in one of the theater orchestras or as one of a group of chamber musicians, playing hidden away in alcoves at the lesser balls.”

  From the corner of her eye, she could see his mother and Mrs. Weston avidly following the exchange, but there was no point appealing to them for assistance. Her plan—her purpose—would live or die on her ability to convince Albury to throw in his lot with her.

  After several seconds of holding her gaze—with absolutely no sign of softening in his face—his lashes flickered, and he tipped his head. “I’m aware the situation is as you describe.”

  But what do you propose to do about it? hung in the air between them—precisely the invitation she’d angled for.

  She tipped up her chin and met his unvoiced challenge. “It’s my ambition to advance the prospects of local English musicians by using my social standing to create opportunities to display their talents before the haut ton.”

  Real interest—an arrested sort of interest—flared in his eyes; she’d broken through his walls—or at least found a chink in his armor.

  “In short,” she went on, “I propose to host musical evenings, featuring as performers the best local musicians one of the premier music schools in London has to offer.”

  When she paused, his eyes slowly narrowed, signaling that, in envisioning such an event, he perceived the obvious weakness in her plan.

  Meeting his increasingly suspicious gaze, she gently smiled. “Of course, not even my name and the backing of my supporters would be enough to fill my rooms for a program featuring only unknown local performers.”

  The penny dropped; he straightened, resistance and rejection flashing across his face.

  Before he could say no, she ruthlessly pressed on, “And that, Lord Albury, is why I wished to lay my plan before you and, in the name of our best local musicians, appeal to you to support my endeavor by agreeing to perform as the essential drawcard for such events.”

  Frederick wanted to say no. To simply refuse and…move on to discussing something else with the surprisingly engaging—attractively confounding—Lady Eustacia. Stacie.

  Instead, he stared at her as the realization sank in that he honestly didn’t know how he wished to respond to her invitation.

  He’d been annoyed by her conspiring with his mother to gain this meeting, but the irritation was fading. If she’d tried to contact him directly, he wouldn’t have agreed to see her; perhaps he should be thankful she hadn’t thought to approach him through Rand or Ryder. And she’d confounded him with her request—an appeal to his better self that was shockingly well-aimed.

  Her argument regarding local musicians was logical, well-based, and struck a chord with him, yet he was equally drawn by her physical attributes and by her determination to place her argument before him and attempt to lure him into breaking his self-imposed rule of playing only for himself or for scholarly purposes.

  Yet his suspicions remained; that she was unmarried, attractive, of his own social class, and had approached him through his mother signaled that this was a matchmaking attempt, albeit one of significantly greater subtlety than any previous tilt at him.

  He was perfectly aware that he ranked very highly as an eligible parti—yet surely, so must she.

  She wasn’t that young; from her assured behavior, he judged she was at least twenty-five years old. So why wasn’t she married?

  If they’d been alone, he would have asked her—to confound her as much as to hear what she would say. Yet if she was avoiding marriage, then presumably she harbored no matrimonial intentions toward him; indeed, she’d given no sign of trying to lure him in that way, which suggested that her quest to help local musicians was her true purpose in confronting him.

  He had no intention of agreeing to her request, yet he didn’t want to refuse her outright—not before learning more about her scheme. The prospect might prove to be as
intriguing as she was, and Lord knew, he was bored.

  Jaded and bored.

  Even though he hadn’t been looking for diversion, Lady Eustacia—Stacie—had given him something novel to think about.

  He held her gaze and coolly stated, “I acknowledge the validity of the points you’ve made. I’ll consider your proposal and inform you of my decision in due course.”

  Would she argue and try to press him?

  She didn’t shift her eyes from his; behind the blue of hers, he saw calculation—an assessing consideration she didn’t try to hide.

  Then, to his considerable surprise, her lashes veiled her eyes, and she inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Stacie returned her gaze to his face. “The musicians of London and I will await your decision in the hope that you will see your way to lending your support in an arena and in a way only a nobleman of your particular talents can.”

  With that parting shot, she forced herself to turn to his mother and, gracefully, take her leave. While uttering the customary phrases, she swiftly reviewed the short meeting. Unless she’d misread him, Albury’s response had been a test of sorts; exactly what he’d been angling to determine, she didn’t know, but she’d got the clear impression that he’d expected her to argue further—so she’d done the opposite.

  With him, she was reduced to operating on instinct; she hadn’t been able to get any clear indication of his thoughts so had been forced to forsake logic and fall back on her innate abilities.

  He might not have agreed to her proposal, but he hadn’t refused yet; at the very least, she would get another chance to persuade him to her cause.

  A cause that, sadly, would go nowhere without his active involvement. His and only his; his agreement to perform was crucial to her success, to her achieving the goal she’d set herself. Consequently, in pursuit of his agreement, she was willing to play a long game. What she’d seen and learned of him in this meeting had confirmed that persuading him to perform at her musical evenings would require unwavering persistence and commitment to her goal. Luckily, she’d been born with the former, and the latter had grown to an unshakeable resolve.

  At the last, she turned to him and offered her hand. “Lord Albury.”

  He clasped her fingers, and his golden gaze trapped hers. For a second, he hesitated, then said, “If I’m to call you Stacie, then perhaps you should call me Frederick.”

  Those were close to the last words she’d expected him to utter; they distracted her from suppressing her awareness of him—from steeling her senses against his physical impact—and her fingers quivered beneath his before she ruthlessly hauled her mind back to its task. Stilling her fingers, too wary to take her eyes from his, she inclined her head. “Frederick, then. Until next we meet.”

  A slight lift to one eyebrow signaled that he’d heard her unstated challenge, then he inclined his head and released her hand.

  With her heart unexpectedly thudding, she flashed the marchioness and her companion a grateful smile, then turned and walked to the door. A footman opened it, and sufficiently satisfied with her first tilt at Albury—Frederick—with her head high, she sailed through and found the butler waiting to see her out.

  Frederick watched the door close behind Stacie Cavanaugh and owned himself puzzled—by her behavior and by his.

  Until next we meet. Obviously, he would be seeing her again—and most likely, without his mother in attendance.

  Speaking of whom…

  He turned his head and directed a pointed look at his parent. When all she did was blink at him, he arched his brows in patent longsuffering, then with a nod to her and Emily, made for the door.

  To his no doubt abiding distraction, he was actually looking forward to crossing paths with Lady Eustacia—Stacie—again.

  When the door closed behind Frederick, the marchioness turned and exchanged an intrigued look with Emily. “Well!” the marchioness declared. “That went a great deal better than I’d expected.”

  Emily nodded. “He didn’t just say no.”

  “Indeed.” The marchioness’s expression turned pensive. After several moments sunk in thought, she mused, “I did wonder, when Stacie appeared on the doorstep, as it were, if that might be a sign. If any lady has proved as resistant to the notion of marriage as Frederick, then surely it would be she.”

  “One has to admit that they seem to share a great many interests, including avoiding the altar.”

  The marchioness nodded. “I do believe, Emily dear, that Fate might have finally taken a hand and steered Stacie into Frederick’s path.”

  “Or him into hers, as the case may be.”

  “Regardless”—the marchioness sat up, determination infusing both her spine and her expression—“Stacie Cavanaugh is unquestionably the best prospect for a daughter-in-law yet to come our way. We must stand ready to do whatever we can to assist in securing such a desirable result.”

  Two mornings later, at an hour when the majority of the ton could be relied on to still be in their beds, Frederick rode his favorite black gelding into the park. He enjoyed the early-morning silence, and once deep in the park, where the sounds of the awakening city were even more muted, he could almost imagine he was at Brampton Hall, engulfed in the soothing peace of the countryside.

  The few other riders about at that hour weren’t interested in socializing any more than he was. With a nod or a salute, they passed each other on the sward or waited for their turn to thunder down the tan of Rotten Row.

  He’d galloped down once and was returning to the head of the track, close by Apsley House, when his gaze fell on the distinctive cherry-red riding habit of a female rider perched atop a good-looking, frisky bay mare.

  Stacie.

  His lips started to curve before he’d realized. He began to straighten them, then surrendered and let his faintly cynical smile show.

  She halted a little way from the track and scanned the riders; her gaze reached him, and after a second of studying him, she sent the mare his way.

  She circled and fell in alongside as he held his black to a long-legged walk.

  He was conscious of her gaze running over him.

  When he turned his head and looked at her, she inclined her head. “Good morning, Frederick.”

  “Stacie.” Viewed in retrospect, it was odd they’d advanced so quickly to a first-name basis. He cocked a brow at her. “Tell me, was using first names a deliberate ploy to make me look upon your proposal more favorably?”

  She widened her eyes at him. “Of course. First names get one past the awkwardness of lord this and lady that, and I would prefer that you didn’t view my proposal in the light of social interaction.”

  “Indeed?” He paused, then felt compelled to ask, “How would you prefer I viewed it?”

  She’d looked ahead and now raised her chin. “As an invitation to contribute to the greater good in a field in which you harbor real interest.”

  He pondered that, then tipped his head her way. “Good answer.”

  “Thank you.”

  They joined the small queue of riders waiting to gallop down the tan track.

  There was sufficient space between them and the riders ahead and those behind for their conversation to remain private; he waited for her to ask for his decision regarding her request, but again, she surprised him.

  Her gaze on the riders before them, she watched with apparent interest as each group or rider took their turn and—for the most part—shot off down the track.

  Then it was their turn. He glanced her way and arched a resigned brow. “I presume you don’t gallop?”

  Most young ladies toed the line laid down by the influential hostesses who ruled the ton and deemed a public gallop a sign of unfettered wildness.

  Her gaze trained down the track, she smiled. “How many grandes dames do you imagine are watching?”

  Then she tapped her heel to the mare’s flank, and the bay shot forward.

  After a split second of shocked surpris
e, he loosened the black’s reins and set off in pursuit. Whoops from the gentlemen who’d been behind them in the queue echoed in his ears as he flew down the tan in her wake.

  His black was the stronger horse, but the bay was fleet of foot and carried a lighter rider who, he had to admit, knew how to ride. He caught up to her only on the last stretch. She threw him a laughing—challenging—glance, then leaned forward, and they raced neck and neck to the end of the tan.

  They shot off the track and wheeled to the right, onto the grass, and slowed.

  Frederick stared at her, conscious of the wild thunder of his heartbeat, of the sheer exhilaration that coursed through his veins.

  She tipped back her head and laughed, rather breathlessly, then shot him a smiling glance. “Thank you. That was fun.”

  He shook his head at her and set the black to walk beside her bay. “Do your brothers know you ride like that?”

  “Who do you think taught me?” She looked ahead, still breathing deeply enough to have him battling the urge to stare at her chest rather than her face. “When I was younger, Rand, and sometimes Kit, too, used to let me sneak out and ride with them at this hour.” She nodded ahead, and he saw a mounted groom waiting under a tree. “I still occasionally ride at this time—much better than later, when there are too many of the ready-to-be-censorious about.”

  Frederick waited, but when she set course for her groom, transparently intending to leave the park, he heard himself say, “I wondered when you would reappear. I have to own to being impressed you thought to seek me out here.”

  She shrugged. “I asked your mother if you rode in the mornings. It seemed a reasonable venue in which to meet, in case you’ve come to a decision regarding my proposal.”

  He noted she’d slid around asking outright if he’d decided. “I’m still considering it.”

  She acknowledged his reply with a tip of her head, then as they neared her groom, she drew rein and met his gaze. “In that case, I’ll leave you to the rest of your morning.”