She peeked at him again, as Miss Fairley performed her song, a pretty Irish melody perfectly suited for her voice. It was obvious he had been working too hard again, his cheeks were thin, his eyes shadowed, his clothes a fraction too big. Oh, how glad she was for his sake that he had opportunity to get away and relax. Oh, how she hoped—and she would pray—this time might prove enough for him to heal.
The music finished, Miss Fairley curtsied at the applause, and Cecy watched her move to the sofa positioned near Mr. Amherst. He joined in with the congratulations. Jealousy stabbed her, followed almost immediately by guilt. She lowered her eyes. He was being friendly, that was all. She should not be so petty as to begrudge a young lady for performing as she ought.
Her turn came, and she wiped damp hands down her gown, the tightening in her midsection the usual precursor to such events. How did people manage such things when asked to perform before royalty and the like? Did they, too, get nervous? She could but wonder what they did to ease the strain.
A moment later she was positioned at the pianoforte, the music before her something she had played many times before. She struck middle C, then moved into the opening movement, doing her best to think of all the things her music mistress at Miss Haverstock’s Seminary used to say. Maintain rhythm. Arch her hands into bridges. Play with a soft touch. Make your fingers dance across the keys. To these instructions she added her own: Get to the end.
When—with only a few slipped notes—the last chord was played, she stood, offered a short bob of a curtsy, and a polite refusal to play again.
“Oh, but Miss Hatherleigh, do you sing? I’m sure there is nothing half so charming as to listening to a young lady sing.”
Lord Robert would not say that if he had ever heard her sing, Cecy thought.
“Oh, yes, please do,” her hostess said, moving forward. “I’m sure we would all enjoy hearing your talents.”
“You are very kind, Lady Aldershot, but I really think it would be better for one of the other young ladies to exhibit. Perhaps Miss Hastings can be persuaded.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure that would be pretty, but I really would prefer—”
“Perhaps, Lady Aldershot, you would not object if I should offer to play the pianoforte,” said Lord Abbotsbury. “That is, of course, unless you only permit young ladies to play.”
“Oh! Well, of course, dear boy, if you should wish to exhibit I would not wish to stop you. You are a fine musician, after all.”
“Thank you.” He drew forward, offering Cecy a warm smile that held not a little of the conspirator about it. Had he done this for her?
Cecy hurried to her seat, sinking gratefully into its cushions as the music filled the room. Clearly the new marquess held skills superior to everyone who had gone before. She peeked a look at Miss Fairley, glad to see her friend’s near sneer had dissolved to something more approving. Yes, the marquess might not have the face of an angel, and as far as Cecy was concerned he could not begin to compare with Mr. Amherst, but it was good to see his talents receive their just dues.
Later, as tea was handed around, Miss Fairley drew near, her eyes sparkling, her voice low. “Well! Tonight has certainly proved quite the turn up. Who would have thought Lord Abbotsbury could play so well? Not that I think it so terribly becoming in a man to play music. I rather think it shows a decided lack of manliness, would you not agree, dear Miss Hatherleigh?”
“Or else it shows a man gifted in such a way.”
“Well, perhaps. But I cannot get past the fact that he is terribly plain. Why, one would not think him a marquess at all! Now, I do think his friend is far more marquess-like in his appearance, he is far more to my way of liking a man to appear if he can at all help it.”
“And how do you think a man should contrive to appear if he is not naturally blessed with fine looks?”
Miss Fairley looked nonplussed for a moment. “Well, I am not sure that I can answer that question. All I know is that Mr. Amherst is by far the most handsome man here tonight.” She tittered. “And, according to Lord Robert, by far the most scandalous.”
Cecy stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, that’s right. I had forgot. You are his neighbor, are you not? I suppose you cannot tell me all that happened that makes him known as such a rake.”
“You suppose correctly.”
“Oh.” Miss Fairley’s features deflated. “Well, that is disappointing.”
“Would you like me to refresh your cup?” Cecy offered. “I would like to—”
“You are quite sure you cannot tell me anything?”
“I do not know the particulars,” Cecy said, “and even if I did, I do not think it fair or helpful to share gossip about another.”
“Well!” Miss Fairley turned abruptly and began speaking to the gentleman on her left, her posture such that suggested she was in great affront.
Cecy stifled a sigh, hoping that her words would not lead to further disparagement of Mr. Amherst’s character, although she doubted that, given the glances and whispers being cast in poor Ned’s direction.
She tried to offer a smile of encouragement, but he was too busy listening to Miss Hastings and did not see her. But Mother did, and her frown, and the eager chatter of Lady Aldershot, soon reminded Cecy she had promised to make an effort with other young gentlemen, and she returned her attention to the conversation on the other side, and forced herself to act interested when Lord Robert drew forward a chair and began to speak.
THE NEXT DAY saw showers, and the gloom outside pervaded the house party, whose attempts to find amusement stuttered and then stopped. “Oh, but is that not always the way?” complained Miss Fairley, peering past the music room windows. “Just when one wants it to be sunny it rains, or when one has nothing to do it is fine. I declare it is like the heavens know of our plans and deliberately try to thwart us.”
“Very unlikely,” murmured Cecy, to whom this apparently was addressed.
The marquess chuckled, a sound which earned him another sharp look from Miss Fairley before she moved to talk to some of the others, including Mr. Amherst who was—once more—being talked to by Miss Hastings. Cecy’s chest grew tight.
“Excuse me.”
She jumped, her attention swinging back to the marquess.
He smiled. “Forgive me, Miss Hatherleigh. I did not mean to startle you.”
“Oh, you did not.”
“I must have been mistaken. Please, allow me to express my gladness to hear your earlier correction of Miss Fairley’s comment.”
“That of the heavens being against us?” Her smile pushed out. “You may think me something of a radical, sir, but I rather believe the opposite.”
“You are right.” His smile widened. “I do believe you hold radical notions if you think such things are true.”
“You disapprove?”
“Quite the contrary. It is rare to meet a young lady who considers matters of this kind. May I enquire if you speak from your own observations or from a deeper understanding of the Bible?”
“The latter, sir.”
“How wonderful then to meet a fellow believer. Especially such a charming one.”
She ducked her head, heart sinking at the admiration she could read in his eyes. A peek across at Mr. Amherst revealed he was still engaged in conversation with Miss Hastings, so there was to be no rescue from that quarter. She suppressed a sigh. Perhaps she would need to politely discourage his pretensions.
“Forgive me, Miss Hatherleigh, but I understand from Ned that you and he have been neighbors for some time.”
“Yes.” She swallowed, and asked quickly, “May I enquire how you first met?”
“Eton, although we did not become good friends until Cambridge days. He has not had an easy time of things of late, but I am glad we have recently renewed our acquaintance.”
“I am sure he is grateful for his friends.”
“Yes.”
He studied her a moment longer, until she grew uncomforta
ble under his perusal. “Sir?”
He blinked. “Forgive me. I was just thinking on something he said yesterday.”
What was it about Ned that made her greedy for his every word, to know his thoughts, his conversations, to see stolen glimpses into his life? “And what was that?”
“He mentioned you were somewhat close.”
He had? Her heart thrilled, it sang, it danced, as a delicious warmth spread through her body.
“That you were like the little sister he never had.”
She stifled a gasp. Her pretty daydreams crumbled into dust.
“Forgive me. Have I said something amiss?”
A swallow past the rocks that lodged in her throat permitted a squeaky, “No.”
“I do not blame him for thinking of you so kindly, seeing as you are so very kind yourself.”
No. She wasn’t kind. She wanted to cry. To scream. To howl at the hurt his words had caused. The knot in her chest hardened, heated. Most of all she wanted to run over there and shove sweet Miss Hastings out of the way and beg him to see her, Cecilia Hatherleigh, as the young lady he should be paying attention to. Her!
“Miss Hatherleigh? I’m sorry, have I said something to upset you?” His brow wrinkled with concern.
Of course he should be concerned, thinking to offer a pretty compliment only to have her react in such a way. She plastered on a smile. “I am not upset. I …” what could she say that was true? “I am not used to hearing such things.” That was true enough, wasn’t it?
He drew closer, his light eyes warm. “Then I hope you will not mind hearing such things again.”
What could she say? Oh, what should she do?
“Ah, Cecilia. And dear Lord Abbotsbury,” Mama crooned. “What a lovely afternoon this is proving to be.”
“Lovely,” Cecy whispered.
“I wonder, dear sir, if you will be good enough to play for us again? Your musicianship is truly marvelous. In fact, I wonder if you might even be so good as to show Cecilia how you manage to perform some of those … arpeggios, I believe they’re called? She has never quite been able to manage them as well as one might like, have you, dear Cecilia?”
“No,” Cecy managed.
“Of course, I would not wish to interrupt your little tête-à-tête, but perhaps sometime this afternoon, should you be willing, of course, my lord.”
He quickly expressed his willingness, before turning to Cecy with a warm smile. “I have frequently observed over many years that one’s ability with certain musical instruments stems quite often from the shape of one’s hands. For example, my fingers—like the rest of me, I’m afraid—are considered to be quite slender, and I have what is thought to be an abnormally wide hand span, which allows for arpeggios to be conducted far more easily than from someone with smaller fingers.” He drew closer. “May I?”
Unsure of what he meant yet conscious Mother would only wish her to speak approval, she nodded, and he picked up Cecy’s hand. There was no fire at his touch.
“If you compare Miss Hatherleigh’s hand to mine, you will see she is quite petite, so it is hardly any wonder that she should not be able to reach the same notes that I can.”
He continued in this way for some time more, during which she peeked up to see the frown of their hostess, and catch Ned Amherst as he looked away, before he smiled at Miss Hastings in a most particular way.
She sucked in a breath. Jealousy roared across her heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ABBOTSBURY WAS HOLDING her hand! How could he? How could she permit him to do such a thing? Ned forced his hands to unclench, forced his smile not to dim as his attention returned to the young lady beside him, the young lady talking at him as she had the vast majority of time since his arrival yesterday. At least her chatter was such that he need only pretend to listen, offering the barest responses by way of seeming engaged, which permitted time to think and sort through his feelings.
He should not wonder at it. Lady Aynsley stood beside the pair, watching with an air of satisfaction, oblivious to the scowls her approval was earning from her hostess. For really, it was the most ridiculous thing, to encourage such attentions in front of one who clearly had other ambitions for the house party, something which became abundantly clear in the next moments as she beckoned a footman to her side and whispered hurried instructions to him before moving to the center of the room.
Lady Aldershot clapped her hands, drawing conversations to a standstill. “Forgive me, but I wished to ask, considering the poor weather we are experiencing, which I’m afraid seems to quite preclude attempts to ride or any outside activity, whether there be any interest in the undertaking of some parlor games.”
The chorus of half-hearted approbation seemed to hurry her on. “Oh, we shall be quite merry, for the games we prefer are not children’s games but quite dashing and invigorating and quite suitable for young ladies and gentlemen. Now, if you would all care to follow me.”
Her tone, her bright hard eyes, her imperious gesture, left no room for refusal, and the party moved to a drawing room whose sole purpose appeared to be for the playing of cards and other games, seeing as it was set out with various round tables and chairs to accommodate groups of four to six people.
The party of guests hovered near some of these tables as their hostess once again smiled. “You will see we have much to entertain you all, for I do pride myself on my hospitality, and really it would be a shame if the young people were not afforded sufficient amusement, would you not agree, dear Lady Aynsley?”
Thus applied to, this lady could scarcely demur, which immediately caused Lady Aldershot to insist that she and the other mothers undertaking chaperonage duties be seated at the table in the farthermost corner of the room, where a game of speculation was being set up for their amusement.
“For we would not desire the young people to feel obliged to participate in something they might consider less than amusing.”
Of course she would not, Ned thought, stealing a look at Lady Aynsley, whose polite expression was already wearing off.
“Now, we shall be quite comfortable,” Lady Aldershot added, with a touch of pride.
The younger members of the party soon were encouraged by their hostess to merge into a larger group, the footmen busily working in the background, shifting chairs and tables to form a large circle.
“Now, if you would all care to take a seat.” From the looks of some of the male members of the party it would appear some did not care to, but they obeyed nonetheless.
Ned found himself between Miss Fairley and a young gentleman whose name he could not recall, and opposite the circle from Cecilia, who sat between Simon and young Robert—who, it might not be remiss to say, had hastened to her side.
“Now, I thought we might commence with a game of What Is My Thought Like?”
The eye roll from his neighbor suggested this game was more appropriate for a children’s party than a company of young adults. But then, mere seconds later, her countenance brightened and she voiced such enthusiasm that Ned had to suppress his own eye roll. No doubt Miss Fairley had recollected the opportunities the game permitted to share flirtations or secrets, and the enticing prospect of paying forfeits.
“We all know how this is played?” Lady Aldershot continued, before giving basic instructions. “Perhaps, Robert, you would care to act as the game’s conductor. I trust you remember how to go on?” This last was said with a hard stare that made Ned wonder precisely what intentions his hostess had.
Her son rose, and giving a self-conscious glance around the circle, addressed himself to the circle. “What is my thought like?”
Ned glanced around the room, his gaze falling on the large mirror overhanging the ornately carved fireplace.
“Everyone has a thought? Well, let us commence. Miss Hatherleigh, what is my thought like?”
Cecilia’s eyes met Ned’s for a fleeting second before she answered softly, “A rose.”
Robert looked pleased for a
second, before addressing himself to Miss Fairley. “Miss Fairley, what is my thought like?”
This question was put successively to the rest, until Ned’s turn when he answered with “mirror.”
Eventually the questioning was completed, and Robert addressed himself to Cecilia again. “My thought is matrimony. Miss Hatherleigh, how is matrimony like a rose?”
She blushed, and after a moment said, “Because it is a sign of love.”
“Yes.” He smiled, pleased, then turned to Miss Fairley. “Miss Fairley, how is matrimony like a cup of chocolate?”
“Because it is very sweet.”
The answers continued until it was Ned’s turn. “Because a mirror, like matrimony, can reveal our true selves.”
Cecy met his glance for another moment before she lowered her gaze.
The game continued. The players who could not answer sufficiently well were penalized and excused from the next round. Eventually there were only five still in play: Simon, Robert, Miss Fairley, Cecy, and Ned.
It was Simon’s turn, and he addressed the remaining party with the question. Ned glanced at the painting opposite him, a classical allegorical painting with angels.
“A vixen.”
“A thimble.”
“A glass of milk.”
“An angel.”
Simon chuckled, then turned to Robert. “What is my thought like? My thought is Miss Hatherleigh.” Her cheeks took on a rosy glow. “Why is Miss Hatherleigh like a vixen?”
She is not, Ned thought, not in character, but the obvious answer adorned her head.
Robert’s brow furrowed for a moment, then he produced a smug smile. “Because her hair holds glints of red-gold.”
“Very good,” said Simon, turning to the next contender. “Miss Fairley, why is Miss Hatherleigh like a thimble?”
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 21
