by Erica Ridley
“Winfield?” the baroness began.
Nora was already halfway to the bell pull.
In moments, the same footmen who always carried the baroness upstairs to her bedchamber materialized in the salon with her wheeled chair at the ready.
“Tell him about Captain Pugboat,” the baroness ordered as she was bundled into her chair. “Do forgive me, Mr. Grenville. I’m afraid my broken leg has got the better of me.”
Mr. Grenville bowed to the retreating baroness. “May you recover quickly.”
In the space of a breath, Nora was now alone in an empty salon with Mr. Grenville.
Of course there was no cause for a duenna, Nora realized with a start. As she was essentially a servant, it would never cross Lady Roundtree’s mind to arrange a chaperone for her companion. It would be like hiring a lady’s maid for her lady’s maid.
Mr. Grenville had not retaken his seat, but nor had he fled from the parlor in horror at the sudden downward shift in his conversation partner. Indeed, he was gazing at her and the puppy with what appeared to be genuine interest.
“Do you ever let a face that cute out of your sight?” he inquired.
“Rarely,” Nora admitted. “Although he is Lady Roundtree’s pet. I merely care for him whilst she is unable.”
Captain Pugboat wiggled up Nora’s bodice in an attempt to lick her cheek, as if wishing to prove that Nora belonged to him rather than the other way around.
“I love pets,” Mr. Grenville confessed. “I haven’t one at the moment. Perhaps that is an oversight I should rectify. Do you favor any certain breeds?”
Nora shook her head. Captain Pugboat was the closest she’d ever come to having a pet of her own. She wished she had esoteric dog wisdom to impart that would make her seem just as clever as the cultured women who participated in book clubs.
“You look particularly lovely today.” His gaze was intense and warm.
She shook her head. “You said that last time.”
“It’s been true every time,” he said softly.
A flush crept up her cheeks. “I cannot take credit. The talent belongs to Lady Roundtree’s talented lady’s maid.”
“You must take some of the credit.” Mr. Grenville lifted his brows. “My mother has impressed upon me the tragedy that no lady’s maid on earth is capable of curling my youngest sister’s hair.”
The corner of Nora’s mouth twitched. “How many do you have?”
“Three, every one of them mad as a hatter. I love them all dearly.” He grinned. “I’m afraid I am the only male. How about you? Brothers or sisters?”
“One. Carter has been both my brother and my best friend for as long as I can remember.”
“Then you understand.” Mr. Grenville nodded, as if confirming a suspicion. “That’s how I feel about my sisters. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them. Although they don’t make it easy,” he added with an indulgent shake of his head.
“Siblings never do,” Nora agreed with a tentative smile.
“I imagine you’re quite proud of your brother,” said Mr. Grenville.
She looked at him in surprise. “I am. But why should you think so?”
“Because I’m certain he’s proud of you.” Mr. Grenville’s hazel eyes locked on hers. “Captain Pugboat seems like a marvelous judge of character.”
“He likes belly rubs,” she confessed. “He would leave with you right now if I allowed you to pet him.”
He stepped forward. “May I?”
“Absolutely not.” She pretended to keep Captain Pugboat out of Mr. Grenville’s grasp. “I saw him first.”
He lifted his brows. “Didn’t Lady Roundtree see him first?”
“I saw him fifteenth,” Nora amended. “But it’s too late. He’s ours.”
“It’s never too late,” Mr. Grenville said as he rubbed behind Captain Pugboat’s ears. “And I promise to never steal your beau.”
Nora grinned back at him.
If she weren’t herself and he weren’t himself, she could easily fall in love with a man like him. He seemed wonderful. And exactly the wrong person to be exchanging a single word with.
He was not only a charming, attractive man, but also the only person outside of this household to give her the time of day. Once she left London, they were unlikely to see each other again. So why not enjoy the moment?
Captain Pugboat wiggled in her arms.
“Shh,” she hushed him. “Be a good little snuggle pug.”
The puppy ignored her and kept wiggling.
She glanced over at Mr. Grenville in embarrassment. “I fear it is past time for his afternoon walk.”
Mr. Grenville sent a startled glance toward the open parlor door as if he only now realized how long they had been conversing alone. “I did not mean to disturb anyone’s schedule. I shall leave you in peace.”
Nora wished she could tell him to disturb her schedule anytime he wished. Instead, she dipped a curtsey.
Captain Pugboat immediately sprang from her arms and streaked straight to Mr. Grenville.
“Come back,” Nora hissed urgently. “Captain Pugboat! Snuggle pug!”
It was too late.
Captain Pugboat had latched tight onto Mr. Grenville’s leg, and began to pump his little pug hips against the side of Mr. Grenville’s champagne-shined Hessians.
“Snuggle pug?” Mr. Grenville stared down at the wrinkly pug humping his leg. “That’s… not snuggling.”
Nora was unsure whether she was about to die of mortification or laughter.
“Perhaps it’s a type of snuggling,” she offered when Captain Pugboat showed no signs of stopping.
“Odd manner,” Mr. Grenville said, his eyes twinkling. “I thought your snuggle pug was despoiling my ankle.”
Nora tilted her head. “You do have shapely ankles.”
He waved a stern finger at her. “Even shapely ankles should not live in fear of being caught in a pug-of-war.”
“Pug of war!” She clapped her hands approvingly. “Excellent play on words. You, sir, are ready for your very own puglet.”
Mr. Grenville glanced down. “I believe that’s what he’s trying to make right now.”
“No, no. It shan’t do. Not at the first tea.” Nora dashed forward and yanked the flailing puppy from Mr. Grenville’s defiled ankle. “Next time, try to play harder to get. You promised not to steal my beau.”
“Please assure me this wasn’t the trick Lady Roundtree wanted you to show me,” he said drolly.
Nora burst into laughter. “Captain Pugboat has many tricks. His repertoire would amaze and astound you.”
“Then I shall expect to be further amazed at every visit.”
“Do you visit often?” she asked, unsure whether her voice trembled from hope or nervousness.
“I do now.” The expression in Mr. Grenville’s hazel eyes was unfathomable. “Until next time, Miss Winfield.”
Without further explanation, he swept a bow worthy of a royal court and left her standing alone in an empty parlor with a yipping pug in her arms and a thousand questions in her heart.
Chapter 10
“Are you certain my cravat isn’t crooked?” Heath asked his youngest sister.
“Why are you so worried all of a sudden?” Bryony arched an eyebrow. “Will Beau Brummel be in the audience tonight, commissioning caricatures of Society gentlemen with crooked cravats?”
Brummel had long since fled to France, and Heath didn’t give one whit what any caricaturist thought of him. But when his valet had begun to ready him for tonight’s musical performance, Heath could not help but wonder if Miss Winfield would be in the audience.
Of course not. At least, probably not. She was Lady Roundtree’s companion, and Lady Roundtree had a broken leg. The salon was far too crowded for safety.
Then again, the injury did not seem to stop them from attending any number of other Society functions. Soirées, tea gardens, carriage rides in the park.
The Grenville musicales were among
the most celebrated ton events of the Season, and if anyone were to risk the elbow-to-elbow packed ballroom with a broken limb, that person would be Lady Roundtree.
Accompanied by Miss Winfield.
His heart gave a strange twist. He hoped she was out there. Hoped she was under the family roof, in the same spacious chamber as his mother and father and siblings. Of course it was not the same thing as inviting her to meet his family. Heath and his sisters would be on stage, and as for their parents… No. Tonight he would be fortunate to merely catch a glimpse of her amongst such a large crowd.
Yet the thought of her in the audience, watching him, seeing his family, listening to their music, filled him with simultaneous joy and nervousness. His instrument was positioned at the rear of the dais for a reason. He was competent at the pianoforte, but no prodigy. His sisters were the ones who would truly impress.
He could not help but hope Miss Winfield loved hearing them as much as he did. Her opinion oughtn’t to matter so much but, well, there it was. Heath would not be performing tonight just for his friends and family. He would also be performing for her. Surrounding the both of them with music.
Bryony frowned up at him. “Are you well? There’s a flush to your cheeks.”
“It’s nothing,” he said quickly.
He must remember that. There was nothing between Miss Winfield and him, and it had to stay that way.
And yet, the beat of his heart remained erratic. He needed tonight to be perfect just in case.
“Is my hair mussed?” he asked Bryony.
His sister burst out laughing. “It’s supposed to be mussed. Unkempt curls flopping every which way is the current rage. Peek through the curtains at the audience if you don’t believe me.”
Heath grinned back at her. “I meant, is my hair mussed enough? Should I let a badger run through it a few times before we start the show?”
She harrumphed. “You’ll do.”
A sudden wave of applause rustled through the audience on the other side of the curtain.
“Almost time,” his sister called over her shoulder as she flounced off to fetch her violin.
Heath shook his head. He wasn’t even certain Bryony bothered to practice her violin, and yet she still took everyone’s breath away any time she placed her bow to the strings.
He turned to check on his other sister, and frowned.
Of all of them, Camellia was in a league above any other. Her soaring soprano was that of an angel, capable of making the hardest heart weep or sing for joy.
And for some reason, tonight her countenance was pasty and wan.
He hurried to her side. “What is it? Never say you are nervous. We’ve sung the same set for nearly a decade.”
She looked up at him with a strange intensity shimmering in her eyes. “Aren’t you tired of it?”
Heath blinked. Tired of a musical set he hadn’t chosen, nor was particularly talented at reproducing? He’d been born tired of it.
That wasn’t why he was here. He toiled at the pianoforte at the rear of the stage because someone had to in order to let his sisters shine.
All this time, he believed he was doing this for them. Particularly for Camellia, who rarely opened her mouth in public for any other reason than to sing. To think that he had been wrong all these years…
“I thought you loved it,” he stammered. “Performing, I mean.”
“I do,” she blurted, her face still alarmingly pale. “It’s the one thing that brings me joy.”
A wave of relief washed over him. He hadn’t been wrong. But she’d had him worried.
Camellia was more than just the “good girl” of the clan. He would not have put it past her to sing at family musicales until she was eighty years old, merely because her mother asked it of her, and Camellia would never disappoint.
Something was amiss.
“If these musicales bring you so much joy, why do you look like you’re about to crawl out of your skin?” he asked, careful to keep his tone light.
“These musicals don’t bring me joy,” Camellia said quietly. “Singing does.”
He stared at her in confusion. “But that’s what you do at the musicale. Bryony plays her violin, I bang a bit at the pianoforte, and you take center stage and sing.”
“That’s not what I want,” Camellia whispered.
Blast. Performing before a crowded salon filled with everyone she’d ever known might be too much to ask of his shy wallflower of a sister.
He touched her cheek. “What do you want?”
Camellia blinked at him as if no one had ever asked before.
Heath swallowed his guilt, as he realized it might even be true. As the good girl, Camellia did what Society expected. She did whatever their mother expected. She behaved exactly as Heath expected. It had never occurred to him that any of it had been against her will.
“Tell me what you need,” he said again.
“Not this stage, and not these songs.” Her eyes were feverish, her jaw determined. “I don’t want to perform at my parents’ home anymore. I wish to be an opera singer.”
Heath’s world tipped on its axis. “A what?”
“An opera singer,” she repeated louder. “I want to try songs that challenge me, to sing lyrics of love and loss, jealousy and joy. I want to perform on the greatest stages in England.”
Heath stared at her in shock. Surely she was exaggerating. “Cam, if anyone hears you say that, your reputation will be ruined forever.”
“I don’t want them to hear me say it—I want them to hear me sing. Real songs.” Camellia took a deep breath. “Tonight.”
“Tonight?” Heath repeated hoarsely. “What do you mean, tonight?”
She gave him a considering look. “We’ve practiced other songs.”
“We’ve always practiced other songs,” he stammered. “We never intended to perform them publicly.”
She shook her head. “You might not have, but I always did. This is my chance.”
“Your chance to ruin yourself. I may suppress scandals for a living, Cam, but there is a limit to what I can do. You becoming an opera singer would be out of my hands.”
Her gaze darkened. “My life should be in no one’s hands but my own.”
“Perhaps tonight you could sing one of the less salacious songs,” Heath suggested quickly. He could not allow his sister to ruin her life. If their mother already despaired of her daughters one day finding good matches, publicly pursuing a career on the stage would ensure it never happened. “Do you understand what you’re saying?”
“Do you hear what I’m saying?” Camellia’s eyes took on a glassy sheen. “I want to be an opera singer. I’m tired of living a lie. I want to show London what I can really do. I’d hoped you might support me.”
Her simple words slammed into his gut.
Of course he wished to support his sister. He had dedicated himself to supporting her since the moment she’d been born. He thought he had been supporting her.
He couldn’t believe that he was just now learning his closest sister and bosom friend had long dreamed of pursuing a career on stage.
Heath was ashamed to realize the omission was undoubtedly because she anticipated him reacting in favor of mitigating any potential scandal such dreams could cause her, rather than maximizing the potential to realize those dreams. His stomach turned.
Should he let Camellia ruin her life, if that was what she wished to do? She was her own woman. And yet he was her big brother.
He had always been driven by a compulsion to do what was right. Never had he felt so conflicted. He wanted to give Camellia the freedom to live any life she picked, but he also wanted to protect her at all costs.
Letting his sister be hurt was the hardest thing she had ever asked him to do.
Another round of applause rumbled through the audience, and a footman swept the narrow curtain to welcome them on stage.
“It’s time.” Camellia hesitated. “Are you going to play the same set Mother arrange
d for us since we were children?”
Heath swallowed. Camellia was no longer a child. He was going to have to encourage her to follow her dream, even if doing so would ruin her life. The choice was hers.
“What do you want me to play?” he asked simply, despite the ice in his belly.
She lifted her chin. “The sequence we practiced the other day. We’ll start with what they’re expecting, then segue into the one they’re doing this month at the Theatre Royal.”
His stomach dropped. “Not… Don Juan?”
Camellia nodded. “The very one.”
Of course it was. If one’s goal was to destroy one’s reputation, half measures would not do. That particular opera featured the most scandalous lyrics to sweep through London in years. But tonight was not about Heath. It was about supporting his talented sister. About fighting for one’s dreams, no matter what the cost.
He turned to whisper the change of plans to Bryony, then stopped short when he saw the gentle expression on her face. Of course the minx already knew. Camellia’s sisters were her best friends. Heath was the one they hadn’t been certain would support such a radical decision.
In truth, he could not love the inevitability of her loss of reputation, loss of marriageability, loss of standing. But he did love his sister. For her, he would do anything.
Resolute, he followed Camellia out on stage.
Heath wanted to interrupt her, to protect her, to stop her from doing this reckless, irreversible thing. He wanted to save her from the pointing fingers, the mocking laughter, the disparaging remarks, the empty dance card… If indeed she would still be invited anywhere.
Their sister Dahlia had lost almost all ties to Society, just for opening a school in the wrong neighborhood.
Willfully following a career path that was often synonymous with prostitution would be a thousand times worse. Society believed that any woman who was paid to perform on stage would be willing to accept money to perform any other act a man desired.
