“A woman who plays as well as you do requires an audience,” the earl said.
“Once that was my dream too,” she said, and the earl looked curiously at her.
The Christmas melodies continued to course through her body as they left the public house. The snow had halted, and the earl helped her into the sleigh. He sat beside her and tucked them into a thick woolen blanket.
Then the sleigh moved through the village. Stone houses were on either side of her, and in the distance was the ocean.
“It’s beautiful here,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“You should spend more time here.”
“Perhaps.”
“I suppose you must be missing London and your...business.”
“The gaming hell?” The earl grinned. “It will manage without me.”
The sleigh moved from the village, and the earl took on a pensive expression. “I do wonder what things would have been like if my father had been more warm-hearted.”
The earl was being kind. Flora remembered the late earl. He’d never even approached being warm-hearted.
“Not all fathers are fatherly,” she said gently.
“Some of that was my fault.”
“Your fault?” she exclaimed.
“It took me so long to learn how to read. That’s why learning to play the piano was so important to me.”
“Oh.”
The earl turned to her. “I think of your father often. Everything would be quite different if I never had his influence.”
“Truly?”
He nodded, his face grave. “He was the first person to believe in me.”
She had a strange instinct to squeeze his hand. Doing so would be improper, more improper than anything else today, and instead she returned her gaze to the landscape. “He always spoke highly of you.”
“I’m glad,” he said.
She wouldn’t have been able to speak about her father even if somebody had inquired about him. Most people assumed him to be absent, perhaps a victim of the war, or perhaps simply a victim of alcohol or a deadly spout of influenza. It wasn’t uncommon for people to not have known their fathers at all.
But she’d known her father. And he’d been wonderful.
Her breath caught, as she remembered how suddenly it had all ended. She tried to emanate a veneer of calm. One thing was informing the earl her father was dead, and quite another was informing him how.
It was suddenly important to speak about anything else. She glanced about her. She spotted the frozen lake in the distance.
“You used to ice skate on that lake,” she said.
“I did,” the earl said. “You remembered.”
“I always wished I could go too,” she confessed.
“You were too little,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s debatable.”
“Ice skating is a proper sport,” he announced. “Far more difficult than walking. How could you ice skate if you’d only mastered walking a few years before?”
“I’m sure I could have,” Flora said.
They spoke more about ice skating, and she was relieved the conversation had turned to a far safer topic, even if the earl was now in the process of cataloguing the injuries he and his friends had received from skating, and how they’d never even scraped a knee from similar actions on the ground.
Chapter Eleven
The sun seemed to have decided not to make an appearance today, and clouds covered the sky, but Wolfe did not care. Yesterday had been surprisingly pleasant, even if his valet had scolded him for the speed with which he’d dressed, and Wolfe was similarly enthusiastic about today.
The breakfast, certainly, was good. Wolfe took another bite of his turtulong biscuit.
A servant opened the door with a tray of more of Cook’s sugary delights. Music drifted into the room.
“Is that Miss Schmidt?” he asked.
“Oh, yes.” The maid smiled. “She does play beautifully.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, and for a moment he sat in placid contentment. The snow had stopped falling, and it reclined in graceful slopes outside the windows, still visible despite the frost-covered panes.
“She should have some biscuits too.” He rose and picked up the tray, absentmindedly noting the swift upward movement of the maid’s eyebrows.
No matter.
He strode from the room toward the parlor.
Playing music with Flora yesterday had been impulsive, but it had been delightful. Even visiting shops had been amusing. Wolfe had gone shopping before, but only during a specifically arranged time when the store was closed to all other people. He was far more experienced at visiting taverns, though normally he would be whisked to a private room once the proprietors either recognized him or noted the always impeccable carriage. He’d never taken a lady to a tavern before: it would be inappropriate.
But Flora was his employee, and at one time she’d been his friend. The rules were different. She wasn’t a married woman who required discretion and whose tastes were expensive, even though they’d never earned money.
He rounded the corner, past the heavy wooden furniture of his ancestors, and the music became stronger.
The sound was beautiful, melodic, and it seemed to wrap about Wolfe’s heart and squeeze it.
He entered the parlor and moved gingerly toward a settee, careful not to make a noise, lest Flora stop. It seemed vital she not stop playing. She played most delightfully, even if he didn’t recognize the music. Perhaps it was some new continental composer. Ever since Handel had come to England a century ago, gifted musicians flocked to London. It was one of the things he liked most about living there.
Flora’s face was round, and she had full cheeks he had a strange urge to caress. Her hair was dark, and her skin pale. He supposed maids did not have much opportunity to go outside. Her hair was tied into a neat bun. Nothing about her was particularly remarkable, and yet his heart tightened in her presence.
He’d didn’t recognize the music she played. Perhaps it was the same composer she’d selected on her first day. A strange splurge of jealousy moved through him that he tried to push away. Most likely she was simply playing some Bavarian composer with wizened skin and a steep stoop everyone knew.
Yet Wolfe prided himself on his knowledge of music. He delighted in visiting concert halls. He often chose pianists to play in Hades’ Lair.
“You play beautifully,” Wolfe said. “What is it?”
She smiled, and her eyes sparkled. “A piece by an unknown composer.”
He hesitated. He would have said more, but he didn’t want to be overly complimentary of another man’s compositions. Perhaps thoughts of this man made her eyes take on a dreamy appearance. “Your playing was the nicest part.” He beamed, conscious he had said the right thing.
For some reason Flora did not beam in a similar manner. The woman should know a compliment. Her smile wobbled, and she glanced down at her fingers. Wolfe followed her gaze, and noted absentmindedly that her fingers were long, slender, and utterly elegant. He drew his gaze up.
“I made some mistakes when I was playing,” Flora said.
“It’s all about practice.”
She nodded. “Sometimes I played piano when no one was home at the vicarage, but the Butterworths didn’t have a piano in London.”
“The Duke of Vernon has a piano,” Wolfe mused. “Though if I know the duke, he probably never bothered to tune it.”
Flora giggled. “He never liked to practice.”
“You remember?”
She nodded.
“How the man thought reading centuries old scientific treaties was more interesting, is still beyond me,” Wolfe said. “I’m sure though he would have let you play. Especially if you had reminded him of your true identity. You are talented.”
Flora looked down. “I never asked.”
“Oh.” Wolfe blinked. Flora seemed so passionate about music. “Why didn’t you?”
�
��It’s not important,” she said, but he had the impression it was important. She didn’t meet his eyes, and her gaze drifted to the tray of biscuits.
“Would you like one?” He offered her the tray.
“Those are supposed to be for Christmas.”
“The maid brought them up to me.”
“Probably because they were cooling in the kitchen,” Flora said. “Do you like them?”
“They’re delicious,” he said.
“Then I’ll make more.”
“I didn’t hire you to be a cook,” he said.
“And Christmas biscuits are an important part. Your cook told me she hadn’t even planned to make a Christmas cake.”
“Well, surely there’s time...”
“It’s supposed to be made a month in advance,” Flora said. “I’d hoped the biscuits could distract people.”
“Don’t forget the mulled wine.”
Flora giggled, and Wolfe wanted it to be because she remembered yesterday.
“So this composer,” Wolfe said tentatively. “Is it the same person you played when I first met you?”
Her smile broadened. “Indeed. In fact...I wrote it.”
“Truly?”
Flora smiled. “You needn’t look that surprised.”
“Oh, no.” He scratched the back of his neck and attempted to muster a look of utter calm.
“Are you surprised because I’m a woman?” she asked.
“Naturally not,” he insisted. “But music is a whole language of its own.”
She shrugged. “Yes. You could say that.”
“And you’re a—er—”
“A servant,” she said.
He nodded.
“I am,” she said. “I wasn’t always though,” she said softly.
“Naturally. I’m sorry.”
She’d been playing merrily before he came into the room.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m simply astounded. But I don’t understand... Why would you keep it secret?”
“I would rather not talk about it,” she said, and Wolfe narrowed his eyes.
That would not do.
Chapter Twelve
“That’s it,” Wolfe said. “We’re going outside.”
Flora was not allowed to appear sad. He clasped her hand and pulled her from the piano seat. He shivered slightly, though that was likely because of the slight coolness of her fingers.
Not the narrow distance between them and the view it provided of succulent lips and large hazel eyes.
Naturally not.
He dropped hold of her hand, but forced a smile on his face and vowed to cheer her up.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“That’s not important,” he said, frantically thinking of a place she might find amusing. “The important thing is that we are going to have a good time.”
She blinked, and then her lips spread into a smile that made him certain he was doing the correct thing, even if he’d already spent the entire last day with her and he was fairly certain most people would not deem it appropriate to spend so much time with one’s female staff.
“The past is behind us, but right now, a good time is imminently possible,” he declared.
“Oh?”
He nodded. “I’m sure there are more things I can teach you about Christmas.”
“You didn’t even know about the magic of mistletoe,” Flora protested.
Wolfe smirked. “That’s true.”
Flora narrowed her eyes, as if not quite believing him. That was because she was clever. Of course he knew about the wonders of mistletoe. He’d known back in Eton about it, and perhaps on reflection, that’s why he was eager to have his sister meet someone at Christmas. The holiday was rumored to be magical, even if he’d never seen any evidence.
“Put on your coat and boots,” he said.
“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows.
“And then follow me,” he announced.
“Just where do you plan to take me?”
“Not far,” he said. “We won’t even take a sleigh.”
“I suppose you desire to admire the grandeur of the home from the other side. Because I’ve already seen it.”
“I know, silly thing,” he said.
She flushed, perhaps at the familiarity, and the back of his neck warmed.
“Come on,” he said, ushering her outside. “I just need to speak to a footman.”
She frowned. “Are you certain this is not your method of flinging me from the house?”
“Nonsense.” He grinned and then moved quickly downstairs. He wasn’t going to wait for a footman to answer a bell. He had an idea for where to take her, and it was wonderful.
He soon procured a bag from the footman and slung it over his shoulder. Flora didn’t need to see the contents. Not yet at least.
They left the manor house.
Flora started toward the stables, but he grabbed her hand.
“This way,” he said.
“But there’s no road...”
“What’s a few inches?”
For a moment her eyes widened, and then she giggled.
They moved over the snow. Their gait became more awkward, and he clasped onto her hand, lest she fall. Falling was the sort of activity that might lead to her catching a cold, and he had no intention of getting her sick. He wondered how her father had died.
They rounded the house, and then he led them toward the clustering of trees. Beyond the trees was the woodman’s cottage, and beyond that, was the lake, which his valet had mentioned was frozen and which the downstairs staff had confirmed.
“You’re taking us to the lake?” Flora’s voice wobbled, and she glanced uncertainly at him.
“I’m taking us ice skating,” Wolfe declared.
“But I don’t know how—”
“I’ll teach you,” Wolfe said nonchalantly. “I believe you mentioned an interest.”
Her cheeks pinkened. “That was years ago.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He hadn’t been skating for years. Wolfe inhaled the crisp, clean air. The sky was gray, but it no longer snowed. Evidently yesterday’s snowfall had sufficed.
Finally, they came to the clearing through the trees. Hills sloped in the background, but it was the glassy center Wolfe pointed at.
“Some of the servant boys went this morning. It should be quite firm.”
“Oh. It’s beautiful.”
He grinned. “Come on. Let’s go.”
She drew back. “I don’t have skates...”
“I’ve brought my sister’s,” he said, removing glossy white ice skates from his bag.
She drew back. “Would she like that?”
“She’s not here,” he said. “Besides, I remember you being friends.”
“That was a long time ago,” Flora said.
Wolfe shrugged and led her to a stone bench some ancestor had had placed there. He gestured for her to sit and then knelt on the snow. It crunched beneath him, but he only smiled at her.
“I’ll help you.”
“I’m a lady’s maid,” she said. “I’m aware of the process of putting on boots.”
“The trick is to tighten the laces,” he said authoritatively.
He helped her slide her feet from her boots. He leaned nearer her, close enough for them to kiss, a thought that should not occur to him and sent butterflies fluttering through him all the same. Her feet were small, even when swathed in thick woolen socks, and he averted his eyes, lest he linger on the sight of her ankle.
“Perhaps you should do them after all,” he said, and his voice sounded hoarse in his ears.
Wolfe was accustomed to being surrounded by women who frequented the finest Parisian dressmakers, who wore dresses that highlighted their cleavage in vibrant colors that enhanced their coloring. Flora’s hair didn’t gleam like gold and her cloak could hardly have been termed anything but basic. And yet, at that moment, he wasn’t certain he’d ever seen a prettier sight.
Dark tendrils peeked from her woolen hat, and her skin was flushed from the cold. She shivered slightly, and he hastily put on his ice skates. He then took her hand. Their fingers didn’t touch: they both wore mittens. And yet some emotion seemed to rush through him anyway, some fire that warmed him and made him uneasy in the cold.
It wasn’t possible that he...cared for her.
Wolfe wondered whether he should curse the inconvenience. One wasn’t supposed to ponder the perfections of one’s servants. And yet Flora wasn’t just a servant, and a strange hopeful feeling seemed to flutter in his chest. It was the same feeling that made him think of pulling her into his arms, and the same feeling that made him think of kissing her.
He swallowed hard and reminded himself she was only here briefly. After Christmas ended, she would go to Cornwall, far from Scotland, far even from London, and he would never see her again. Earls did not call upon women who worked as companions to widows in Cornwall, and something in his heart panged.
He shook his head, as if the action would dissipate his sudden sentimentality. After all he was, what else was he supposed to do with himself now? It was perfectly natural for him to want to spend time with her. No guests had arrived yet, and it was important he monitor her progress, and that they discuss details.
He didn’t desire to dwell on the fact that inviting her to go ice skating could be described as distracting her and that they could not very well install an ice pond in the ballroom for the guests to enjoy.
Skating with her now was purely pleasure, even though it involved excessive layers of attire and the risk of falling on slippery ice. He hadn’t intended to go skating with her this morning, but he was happy he’d invited her. Ice skating always cheered him up. It would be pleasant to focus on something besides ledgers.
He grasped her hand firmly and strode toward the pond.
“I don’t think I’ll be very good,” she warned him.
“It will be fun. I promise.” He turned to her. “But if you don’t like it at any point, you can simply tell me and we’ll stop.”
She smiled hesitantly and moved tentatively over the snow. He offered her his hand and she took it.
He hadn’t realized that teaching someone ice skating necessarily involved holding their hand, and something in his heart ached, like a note of warning. Finally, her legs seemed to straighten and her shoulders moved back, and she flashed a smile at him.
Lords, Snow and Mistletoe Page 23
