“Eager, were you?”
“The city has gotten raucous the last few days. Demonstrations daily. Lots of arrests. Some country air will do me good. The muse gets petulant if there are such distractions.”
“I trust that you will not be distracted here. There is breakfast waiting, but you must feed your muse in isolation. My sister has not risen yet to do the hostess duties.”
Witherby smiled vaguely at this reference to Penelope. He knew that Vergil knew what was up, and Vergil knew he knew, but a man did not discuss another’s pursuit of his married sister, even if they were old friends.
“You will be happy to know that the gathering is artistic, as one would expect from Pen,” Vergil said.
“The countess’s parties are always delightful. I expect this one to surpass all others.”
Vergil decided not to speculate on just how much delight Witherby might be anticipating. A big, quiet country house offered all sorts of opportunities for privacy.
He firmly shut contemplation of that out of his mind.
“You are dressed for riding,” Witherby observed. “I am keeping you.”
“A walk first, then a ride. Go and settle yourself as best you can. St. John is here, by the way, and he normally comes down early, too, so you should not be bored too long.”
With a happy, jaunty stride, Witherby aimed for the house. Vergil waited until he was out of sight, then turned and headed after Bianca.
When she came into view, he slowed so that he would trail behind her.
He followed out of concern for her safety, but admitted that he also wanted to determine whether Nigel waited somewhere up ahead.
A mile into the trees she turned onto a western path. He realized that she headed toward the ruins. Not a good sign. The medieval castle provided an ideal spot for couples to meet.
She was nowhere in view when he stepped into the high grass around the remains of Laclere Park’s early fortifications. The keep survived as half a shell, and only one section of the old battlements endured, with the wall down in places and crumbling in others. Large stones scattered the overgrown clearing that had once served as the bailey. Of the whole structure, only a single, square wall tower still stood in reasonably safe condition.
Memories of childhood play tugged nostalgically, reminding him of the easy bond that he had once shared with Dante, and which secrets and neglect had almost destroyed. He scanned for signs of Miss Kenwood.
Suddenly a muffled, sweet sound floated through the morning silence. It rose and lowered like a gentle wave on the breeze, sending eddies out to surround him. He followed it to its source in the square tower and stepped through the stone threshold.
Sound submerged him, pitching off the walls and vaults. Above in the guards’ chamber, Miss Kenwood practiced her scales, her voice gaining volume with each recurrent rise. He paused and listened to the repetitious climb of an instrument being tuned and warmed.
She stopped and he heard her speak. To Nigel? The man might use her music to entice her here. If so, she was in no immediate danger. He doubted that she would set aside her primary passion in order to explore other ones right now.
The sound broke again, pouring down the stairs. Not scales now, but a Rossini aria.
The melody washed through him. Precise and disciplined, like a bird’s elaborately textured song, it drenched the mind and flooded the heart and churned indefinable sentiments the way the best music always did. The sensual undertones in her voice inundated a hidden reservoir that he had been struggling to keep dammed.
Almost involuntarily, his legs took him up the dark stairway toward the siren who unknowingly lured him toward a forbidden shore.
She stood alone in the chamber, her back to him, framed by the lines of walls tapering up to the stone vaulted ceiling. No Nigel. No one at all. She must have been speaking to herself.
He rested his shoulder against the portal’s frame, to watch and listen. He wished that he could see her face, but his memory provided the radiant expression that he had witnessed that day when she performed in the music room.
He did not fight his reactions. He would have been incapable of doing so even if he sought to. Instead he let her notes raise a tide that submerged everything in the world except her pure passion and his own astonished desire.
It felt so good. Transporting. Glorious. Her voice took over her body and dissolved its substance until only the singing existed. The stones enriched the timbre like no other room ever had. She wished that she could bring Catalani here.
It ended too soon, and she regretfully held the last note longer than the score required. It hung above her, dripping like a single bud’s nectar into her exposed spirit. And then it was over, leaving her spent and a little melancholy.
She abruptly sensed that she was not alone. Fearing that Dante had followed her, she turned with misgivings.
The viscount leaned casually against the portal opening, arms crossed over chest, watching her. He looked very handsome there, and somewhat intense despite his nonchalant pose.
“Did you follow me here, Uncle Vergil? To spy on me?”
“I thought of it as protecting you, but yes, I followed.”
“Surely I am safe at Laclere Park. Your bold poachers must have moved on or switched to traps. There have been no firearms shot this last week.”
“If you know that, you must come here often. Always to sing?”
The chamber had a window, no more than an arrow slit. She moved toward it, away from him. The stones heightened nuances in his tone that made her cautious. His eyes carried a hooded expression that she could not read. His presence struck her as dangerous. A ridiculous reaction to have, but she could not shake it.
She examined the view, avoiding his fixed regard. “I do not accept the situation that makes you think that you have a right to quiz me. Yes, I come here often, usually in the morning like this. I found this tower one day while riding. And yes, I come to sing.”
“Alone?”
She looked back over her shoulder. “You thought perhaps I arranged assignations here with Nigel? You followed to protect me from any improper intentions?” The notion made her want to giggle. Such careful protection of her virtue on the grounds, while his own brother accosted her in the library. “You missed your ride to no purpose. The convenience of this tower for such meetings never occurred to me. I shall have to keep it in mind for the future.”
“I doubt that you will. You would not have time to practice then. I never noticed before, but this chamber affects sound the way the ancient Norman churches do. Whatever your cousin’s potential attraction, these stones hold more.”
“Perhaps he will come to listen. As you did.”
He pushed away from the wall with a little smile. “If so, you will definitely need protection.”
He paced casually toward her. She found herself edging away. Silly, really, but there was something different about him today. A compelling something, but also disconcerting.
“Pen announced that you will sing this evening. Are you practicing for your performance, to be sure that you are in top form for Catalani?”
“Yes.”
“You spoke at length with her last night. Quite a tête-à-tête. I assume that you informed her of your plans.”
“Do not worry that I embarrassed you and Pen. No one else heard me and I think she knows the necessity of discretion with a viscount’s guests.”
He kept moving, looking around the chamber as if he had not been here in a long time. She felt a continued compulsion to stroll away.
“What did Catalani advise?”
“She agreed with me, that if I want the best training I must go to Italy, or bring one of their premier voice masters here. Until then, she gave me the name of a tutor who might work with me in London. She recommended a Signore Bardi, who serves as bel canto master to some of the best singers in London.”
“No other advice? I would not have expected Catalani to be so reserved.”
“S
he asked if I understood the life, what it would entail.”
“Do you?”
“I know about the hard work. The travel. The need to perform despite exhaustion and illness.”
“That is not what she meant.”
A flush warmed her face. “I know what she meant.”
“I do not think that you do. Not really. I doubt that you have any idea of what it means to be someone whom respectable women will not have as a friend. This opera singer may visit houses like this one, but there is only one Catalani. It will not be thus for you. There will be no Aunt Edith in England or Italy to blunt the scorn.”
Annoyance made her stand her ground. “I know what so-called decent people think about such women. I saw very decent men indeed approach my mother at times. As I grew older I understood what they wanted. I will deal with them as she did. Am I supposed to forego something important to me, essential to me, because of unfounded prejudices?”
He kept walking. Circling, circling. If he were not a citadel of propriety, if his demeanor were not so casual, she might succumb to the sensation that she was being stalked. His height kept him to the center of the chamber, and the circle seemed a rather small one now that she stood in its center.
“The prejudices are well-founded for most actresses and singers,” he said, as if discussing women of ill repute were a perfectly acceptable topic.
“The life is an insecure one, and I expect many performers need to accept the protection offered to them.”
“You think that it is desperation that makes such women into mistresses and courtesans, and that your inheritance will spare you? Your judgment is harsher than mine. I assume that it is loneliness. A decent marriage is almost impossible. There are wastrels who will offer, but none whom you will want.”
This indelicate conversation had suddenly become personal. “I know that too. Some things are worth sacrifices, however.”
“A lifetime of them? You think so now, but in ten years? Fifteen? No marriage, no children, no home. I find it more sad than scandalous that for most of these women the day comes when someone offers the semblance of love and they take it. No matter what their resolve when they start, after a period of virtuous, unnatural isolation, the choice is probably inevitable.”
“How dare you presume to predict such a bleak and sordid future for me. You are very cynical to contend that if I pursue my singing my fall is preordained. Not that I can see why it should make any difference to you.”
His pacing stopped, leaving him several feet away. “I am responsible for you.”
“So you interfere with my life, to protect me from myself. For all of ten months.”
“Longer, if I can find the way.”
Longer! “Don’t you dare try to manipulate further obstacles. I will not tolerate it.”
“Your resolve leaves me little choice. You may think that you can live like a nun, but I doubt that you have it in you to do so indefinitely.”
“Your implication is insulting and scandalous.”
“Not insulting at all. And scandalous only if you end up as some man’s mistress instead of some man’s wife.”
“You have crossed a line, sir. It is improper for you to speak with me like this, even if you are my guardian.”
He cocked his head and a wry little smile flickered. “I have crossed a line, haven’t I? Rather decidedly. I astonish myself.”
He glanced around as if suddenly realizing where they were. “Are you finished, or did you intend to practice further?”
“I want to rehearse the aria once more. I will return to the house shortly.”
“I will wait and escort you back.”
He settled against the wall again, in a pose of relaxed patience. She experienced a peculiar shyness.
She began to turn away, but he shook his head. “If you cannot practice with one man watching, how can you perform in front of an opera house full of them?”
Because that is different. An irrational response, but it was different. The focus of two eyes, these eyes, discomforted her more than a sea of faces. The attention of one person, this person, unsettled her more than a packed music hall. If even one other body were present, it would dilute the singular connection. After all, he had been present in the music room and she had not reacted this way.
She averted her gaze and tried to erase the awareness of him, but it didn’t really work. The aria started weakly, as if her breath dodged an obstruction in its path to her throat. The blockage was her swelled heart pounding nervously. Stupid. Stupid. She located some composure within resentment at his intrusion, and hit her stride.
The music took care of the rest. Concentration on technique and expression absorbed her. The exhilaration transported her. It was not like the last time, however. Another spirit joined her on the journey, following, crowding, encompassing. As the song progressed, she could not resist looking at him. He waited with a detached manner, looking down, a man courteously biding his time before moving on to important things.
He sensed her attention. His gaze rose and met hers. She almost faltered into abrupt silence. His eyes were more startling than usual. Their expression glowed deeply warm, subtly savage, and definitely male. Not the least avuncular or aloof, and hardly protective.
Goodness, had her singing done that?
Despite her startled dismay, an amazing thrill streaked through her. Instead of stumbling, her voice soared. She could not look away and the aria created a provocative union between them. Spiritual. Sensual. Almost erotic. Perplexed alarm shook her, even while a heady sensation of power grew. The euphoria transformed into something undeniably physical within their mesmerizing link.
She could not have ended it even if she wanted to. Unknown emotions propelled her voice with new passions. She closed her eyes at the end, as much to contain the sensations as to savor the finale. The stones held the last sounds like a silent echo for a long heartbeat.
She did not want to open her eyes. Something had happened here that she did not want to acknowledge, something wordless and touchless, but more improper than Dante’s kiss. He should have known better. She should have stopped it. She did not want to look at him until this terrible breathlessness abated.
A breeze of warmth caused her to open her lids a slit and see polished boots very close to her skirt. His fine, strong hand took hers and raised it to his lips for a fleeting kiss. “Your singing is nothing short of magnificent, Miss Kenwood. Catalani should be suitably impressed this evening.”
She had to look then. He gestured formally toward the stairs. His expression had resumed its normal restraint and hauteur, but the other still shadowed it, as if the drape of reserve he had drawn was translucent.
He led the way, handing her down the winding stones, a careful representation of detached, courteous concern. As they strolled along the wall toward the path, he paused and looked up at the battlements.
“It is very picturesque,” she said, hoping small talk would vanquish the odd mood throbbing between them.
“My father considered restoring and rebuilding it. Just as well he chose to remodel the house instead. This would have cost three fortunes instead of one, and resulted in a dwelling barely habitable.”
“I think that it is nicer as it is, with bits and pieces of history breaking through the brush. It would look a little silly all repaired and newly mortared.”
“We used to play here as children. Dante and I were the knights, and we pressed Pen into playing the lady imprisoned by her evil guardian.” A broad smile broke as soon as he said it. “You can have that role now.”
The little argument that he invited might help diminish how conscious she was of him standing beside her, but she simply could not pick up the cue.
“Didn’t your older brother join your play too?”
“When we were very young he did. Then he outgrew us, I suppose.” His gaze on the battlements turned reflective. “As he got older he retreated into his own interests, and his own mind. By the time he went to
university, he was a stranger.”
“Is that why you want to read his letters and such now? To get to know him in ways he did not permit in life?”
His head snapped around and he gave her a very odd look, as if she had surprised him. “I suppose so, in part.”
His attention called forth the emotions from the tower again. She forced her own gaze away, up the wall. “I would like to explore the keep one day.”
“I do not advise it. It has been unsafe for years. The wall walk too. Not all of these stones scattering the ground were here when I was a boy.”
As if to emphasize his point, a fist-sized stone plummeted to the earth, landing at their feet. Vergil frowned up, his eyes scanning the battlements. Bianca turned to scoot away.
An ominous scraping sounded above. Another stone fell, hitting her shoulder.
Suddenly everything blurred. He grabbed her arm and swung her around, smacking her against the wall. She found herself wedged between unyielding stone and a hard body, her shoulders embraced by covering arms, her face tucked against his neck while his head pressed down on hers. Her sight had barely righted itself when a lethal avalanche of large rocks fell right beside them, one of them bouncing above their heads before grazing along Vergil’s back.
She stared aghast at the shower of death and cringed inside her haven. It seemed forever before the scrapes and rumbling stopped.
Vergil raised his head to examine the upper wall. “A whole machicolation came down.”
“An apt lesson to give these ruins wide berth in the future. Who would expect peaceful Laclere Park to be so dangerous?”
She spoke nervously into his starched cravat. The blue superfine of his coat caressed her cheek and her fingers rested on the silk embroidered roses of his gray waistcoat. The shock had made her extra alert and a part of her mind absurdly contemplated the varied textures of his garments. And the blissful protection of his arms. And his masculine scent. “Could my singing have done this?”
“It was most likely gravity finishing off what time began. Still, the odds of witnessing such a thing are rare. It is possible that your voice added a push.” He angled his head down to see her face. “Were you injured?”
The Saint Page 9
