by Sara Portman
His. She could be his. His body hummed with the knowledge of it.
She began to play, and the room was overtaken with the melodic sounds. She played with fluidity and economy in her motion and her posture, all of the flair reserved for the music she produced. For those first few bars, all in attendance watched Lucy—his Saint Lucy of Beadwell. He noted the looks of several in the audience: appreciation of her obvious skill. He swelled with pride for her.
Then Madame Castellini began to sing, softly at first but gathering in power. All eyes were on the singer from her first note.
Except his own. The Italian opera singer was gifted and her song transcendent. Lucy was the vision that complemented the song—an angel of light and music. He watched the line of her slender back and her long neck as her head bent over the keys, more intent than he’d ever seen her. The soprano’s voice seemed to envelope her, only exaggerating her ethereal beauty—making her seem even more heavenly and out of his reach.
Of course he could not touch her. She was poised for the recognition she deserved. If he gave in to the thing he wanted so badly, the price would be the loss of everything for her. Her beauty and her musical gift that so moved them all and threatened to outshine a renowned opera singer—it would be forgotten. Her cleverness, her inquisitiveness, and the delightfully pragmatic way in which she viewed the world—they would never be discovered. She would only be a ruined woman, nothing more.
He had done the right thing.
Damn.
He should do the right thing for himself and stop thinking of her, stop obsessing over a gift he could not accept. He needed to direct his attention away from torturous thoughts and in the direction of progress. He wanted out of his father’s house and out from under the duke’s charity.
He looked to Ashby and cursed again. His seat was empty. The man had already slipped away.
* * * *
Lucy was grateful when the performance was over. She had never been comfortable on display and, even with Madame Castellini the focus of attention, the performance had been nerve racking. Playing had not been the difficult part. She had always been able to lose herself in concentration to the music. The introductions had been uncomfortable, with so many pairs of eyes watching her. The end had been a little better, simply because she had known the performance was done and she’d not made any grave mistake. The applause had been raucous—for Madame Castellini, of course. The best part was that Lady Ashby had smiled at her directly and given her an approving nod. It was a positive sign. She should feel better about it. Becoming a governess and music teacher may not be the life for which little girls dreamed, but she was not a little girl. It was a sound plan—a practical plan—but somehow practicality had begun to seem less appealing than it had before.
When the applause was finished and the people had drifted away, Lucy looked into the rows of chairs and found only Emma sitting there. She went to her friend and sat next to her, taking her hand in hers. “Madame Castellini was splendid, was she not?”
Emma nodded. “She was. Quite.” Her response was not as enthusiastic as Lucy had expected.
“Lady Ashby nodded at me after the performance,” Lucy said brightly. “I think she approved.”
Emma patted her hand. “How could she not, dear? You are wonderful. And I have already spoken to her about you—about your plans.”
“You have? Thank you.”
That was unexpected. Was it the reason for Emma’s melancholy?
“Please don’t be sad for me,” Lucy said, still holding Emma’s hand in both of hers, looking down at them as she spoke. “This is the best path for me just now.”
Emma nodded. “I know this is your choice, Lucy, and I mean to help you. I am not sad. I simply don’t feel well.”
Alarm coursed through Lucy. “You don’t feel well? Why didn’t you say so immediately? What are you feeling, precisely? Where is the duke?” She stood, scanned the room for him. When she did not see him, she returned her attention to her friend. Emma was rather peaked. How could she have been so self-involved as to not notice? She sat again and searched Emma’s face. “Tell me exactly what the trouble is, dear.”
Emma patted Lucy’s knee gently with her gloved hand. “I am only tired and a little queasy,” she said, “and I should like to go home and lie down. It is nothing that rest will not cure.”
“Are you absolutely sure it is only that?” Lucy asked. “Should I call the physician? The duke may insist we send for the physician.”
Emma’s smile was wan. “I do not require a physician. I require my pillow.”
Lucy was on her feet in an instant. “And you shall have it,” she insisted. “Do not move, I shall return with the duke.”
Emma laughed, showing a little more spirit. “Do not go anywhere, Lucy. John only went to get me something to drink. He shall return momentarily. Sit. Be calm. All is well.”
Lucy did as she was instructed.
“You played beautifully,” Emma said on a sigh. “I only wish I could be more enthusiastic in my praise, for you deserve it. You are gifted and a joy to watch when you play.”
“Thank you. I love you for coming to support me, but I suspect it was a mistake. The evening has been too taxing for you.”
Emma inclined her head. “A bit, maybe, but I am glad I came.” She smiled again. “I am also glad to be going home.”
“A brilliant performance, Miss Betancourt,” the duke said, approaching them with two water glasses. “Very well done.”
Lucy stood as he handed one glass to Emma. “Thank you, Your Grace, but you should know that the duchess is ill. I think it is time for all of us to take our leave.”
The duke’s brow knit as he lowered himself to the chair on the other side of Emma. “Is it worse, darling?” he asked, all solicitation and concern.
Emma smiled. “It’s a bit of queasiness, nothing more,” she assured him. “I am grateful to have such diligent caretakers, but I am in no danger, I assure you. I am simply ready to return home, if that is no great bother.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it is not a bother,” he told her. “You and our child are the most important people in the world. Making sure you are well will never be a bother.” He stood. “I will have the carriage brought around from the mews. Lucy will stay with you.” He glanced to Lucy to gain her confirmation of this statement, and she nodded.
“Thank you, dear,” Emma said. “I shall be glad for Lucy’s company while I wait, but she must not return home with us.”
“Nonsense,” Lucy declared. “Of course I shall.”
Emma shook her head, then stopped and held her temples, as though the vigorous motion had been a mistake. After a pause, she said, “You cannot leave, Lucy. You played brilliantly. You must stay and allow Lady Constance to present you to her friends so that they may adore you. If you shall truly be a music teacher, you cannot squander the opportunity to make connections with those who have seen you play. It is too important.”
“You are important,” Lucy said.
“I am simply tired. Accompanying me home will accomplish nothing other than ending your evening earlier than necessary.” She looked up at the duke. “Tell her, John,” she said. “Tell her she must stay.”
“Who shall see her home?” he asked, glancing from Lucy to his wife.
“Lady Constance shall make an arrangement. She will have her own carriage bring Lucy home if need be, I am sure.” Emma turned to Lucy and took her hand. “You must stay, dear. Do not worry a bit about me.”
Lucy was torn. She wished she could tell if Emma truly was only tired, or if her friend was attempting to be brave in the face of feeling much worse. “Are you absolutely certain?”
Emma nodded and took her husband’s hand. Lucy looked at the duke. There was nothing Lucy could do for her friend that he could not. “All right,” Lucy acquiesced. “I shall ask after yo
u when I return, so leave a message with Agnes if you have need of me.”
“Of course.” Emma released her husband’s hand and watched as he left them to see about the carriage. She sighed again and returned her attention to Lucy. “Lady Constance will not allow you to be shy,” she said. “She will be a good chaperone for you this evening.”
“You know I would prefer a warm fire and a book over a room full of strangers in fine clothing.”
“Be brave, dear,” Emma said. “You shall enchant them all.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “No one expects to be enchanted by their governess, Emma. Are you suggesting I stay to meet employers, or unmarried gentlemen?”
Emma gave a halfhearted shrug and a sly smile. “Where is the harm in either?”
Lucy shook her head. “Even ill, you are incorrigible.”
The duke returned then and announced that the carriage would be brought around forthwith. “Are you ready, darling?” he asked, holding out an arm to assist his wife in rising.
She took it with both of hers and managed to pull herself from her chair, although less gracefully than she might otherwise manage. She turned to Lucy before they left. “Do enjoy your evening, Lucy,” she encouraged. “In between everything else, try to enjoy yourself.”
Lucy nodded and watched the duke and duchess as they left, his arm protectively around her, ignoring all but his wife.
And then she was standing alone among the empty chairs, as everyone else had returned to the grand parlor. She sighed, wished a little that she was departing for home as well, and then set off to find Lady Constance.
* * * *
Lady Constance found Lucy first.
“There you are, ma petite,” she called. “I have been looking for you.”
Lucy turned to the comtesse to see that she was surrounded by a small group, including, to Lucy’s great discomfort, Bexley Brantwood.
She noticed him immediately, as though she had an extra sense that existed solely for detecting his presence. She had hoped to avoid him this evening—had even thought perhaps he would feel as awkward as she and choose not to attend. Alas, that was not the case.
Lucy moved to stand near Lady Constance, aware of holding the attention of all nearby.
“We were just discussing how beautifully you played,” the comtesse said with a proud smile.
“I can’t imagine anyone noticed the accompaniment at all, with such a moving performance by Madame Castellini,” Lucy said with a hesitant smile. “It was an honor to play for her.”
The men and women surrounding the comtesse responded with approving murmurs and nods of support before returning to their individual conversations, leaving her the attention of only Lady Constance—and Bex. Lucy studiously avoided looking to him. She wanted too badly to have his approval. She was so desperate for his praise above the others that she would not allow herself to look at him, as to do so would be to ask for it. He had the uncanny ability to divine her every thought.
“Come, Miss Betancourt, have you been introduced to Lord Danvers?” Lady Constance indicated the gentleman on her immediate right who turned upon hearing his name. He was a tall, smartly dressed man with dark looks—he was every inch the dashing, rakish gentleman.
At the slight shake in Lucy’s head, Lady Constance turned to him. “Lord Danvers, allow me to present Miss Lucy Betancourt. She is a longtime friend of the Duchess of Worley.” She then turned to Lucy, waving one hand to indicate the gentleman. “Miss Betancourt, I present Lord Danvers. He is an exceedingly pleasant gentleman unless you are playing whist, in which case he is an unabashed cheat.”
Lucy looked to Lord Danvers to assess his reaction to this unconventional introduction, but he only threw his head back and laughed heartily at the description. “I am indeed,” he said through an amiable smile once he had recovered himself, “and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, my lord,” Lucy said with a slight curtsy. He had been a good sport, and she was always pleased to meet someone of good humor. It was easy to return his smile, but the expression became strained when she sensed a presence at her back.
Bex.
Why was it that she could feel him? How was it that he affected her so?
Lucy tried to ignore how his proximity awakened awareness and heat throughout her body. She swallowed. “Do you enjoy the opera, Lord Danvers?” she asked, attempting to participate in their polite conversation.
“I do,” he nodded, and she noted a slight lift of his brow. “Do you enjoy the opera, Miss Betancourt?”
Too late, Lucy realized it was precisely the sort of question a woman might ask were she angling for an invitation, but she had not meant it in that way at all. She was not attempting to flirt with Lord Danvers. She felt her cheeks grow warm. She had only meant to discuss the evening’s entertainment, nothing more. She tried to clarify. “I do, my lord, but then, I don’t know how anyone can bear witness to an amazing talent such as Madame Castellini and not become an enthusiast. I have been to the opera twice with the duke and duchess, but I don’t think I have ever seen anyone quite of Madame Castellini’s caliber.”
She was doing it again. Just as always, she was filling an awkward moment with incessant speech. She couldn’t seem to stop herself.
She felt a staying hand come to rest at the small of her back, and Bex’s deep voice came from behind her, warming her more deeply than his simple nearness had done. “Lady Constance, you must tell us of opera on the Continent.” The pressure of his hand was gone just as she was becoming accustomed to its reassuring presence.
He knew. He knew she’d been rambling toward social idiocy and he’d prevented her from continuing. He knew better than most in what sort of situations she could find herself if she spoke first and thought second.
“Italian performers are superior, of course,” Lady Constance responded, with the authority of one who had spent most of her life on the Continent, “but I find the quality of the London productions to be quite good.”
As she spoke, Lucy sensed Bex moving from behind her to stand at her side. She reminded herself that the movement was not possessive. He was simply drawing himself into the conversation.
“I am glad to hear we have not been subjecting ourselves to a poor man’s substitute for good opera,” Lord Danvers said lightly. “Now if you will excuse me, I should find my sister. Once can never trust the rogues that lurk in London ballrooms.” He cast a quick glance toward Bex, and Lucy had the distinct sense that the look was not the first in a silent conversation between the two men.
When Lord Danvers left, Lucy took a deep, fortifying breath and turned to Bex. “Good evening, Mr. Brantwood.” She tried diligently to exude friendliness without too much familiarity—to behave as though his rejection had not altered their rapport. She was fairly certain by the tilt of his lips and the amused glint in his eyes that she had managed to communicate her trepidation instead.
Could a woman have no secrets?
“Good evening, Lucy.”
He clearly had no compunction with familiarity. Lucy glanced to Lady Constance, but the comtesse seemed to think nothing of his use of her given name. She supposed the lady did know they’d traveled the countryside posing as man and wife.
Still, Lucy cut Bex a look. “You shouldn’t be so familiar here,” she said quietly. “No one will want me as their governess if they think I am fast.”
Bex said nothing but lifted his brow, eloquently pointing out the absurdity of her admonition. She could hear the unspoken words. If allowing your given name is fast…
“Appearances are important,” Lucy said, unable to keep a healthy bit of pique from her tone.
Lucy turned to apprise Lady Constance of her need for conveyance home at the conclusion of the evening, but found when she did so that their group had grown to include Lady Ashby, along with a younger gentleman and another y
oung woman. Lucy stepped guiltily away from Bex’s side and cast him one last warning glance, praying he would behave in Lady Ashby’s presence.
Lady Ashby’s greeting for Lady Constance was effusive, as everyone’s seemed to be. Lucy could understand why she was so universally liked. She played the game very well, knowing with whom she could be irreverent and with whom she should adhere to propriety. Lady Ashby seemed to be the latter.
The comtesse smiled prettily and greeted her with a gentle squeeze of the other woman’s hands. “Lady Ashby, I am so looking forward to hearing your thoughts of the performance. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Oh, immensely,” she responded, beaming back at the comtesse. “Such a moving performance and that voice”—she shook her head as though she could not quite believe it even now—“positively transcendent. We may all stop entertaining this season for fear we cannot meet the standard you have set with this triumphant evening.”
Lady Constance accepted the praise graciously. “You flatter me, Lady Ashby, but I cannot claim credit for Madame Castellini’s gift. I am simply pleased that you so enjoyed it.”
Lady Ashby nodded and turned to Lucy. “And you, Miss Betancourt. I am impressed with your playing. Very impressed.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Lucy said.
Lady Ashby turned to her companion. “Don’t you think she did exceptionally well, Mariah?”
Lucy stiffened. Hot embarrassment shot through her.
“Oh, yes,” the girl responded enthusiastically, coming forward to meet Lucy.
“This is Lady Mariah Randhurst, my brother’s fiancée.” Lady Ashby indicated the man who accompanied them. “My brother is Lord Renleigh.”
Lucy swallowed. She stared a moment at Lord Renleigh, who stood back from the group of ladies, but listened politely and nodded upon hearing his name. She had kissed him. Kissed him. Of course he would turn out to be Lady Ashby’s brother—her engaged brother. Whatever would Lady Ashby think of her if she knew? She said a silent prayer of gratitude that no one could possibly know it had been she in the garden with him during the Ashbys’ dinner party.
