by Jane Ashford
She embellished a sequence. He elaborated on her embroidery. With a smile and a little nod, he varied the tempo. She swooped in effortlessly to answer the change. It was a glorious, intimate call and response. As if they could read each other’s minds. As if their bodies pulsed to the same rhythms. This was music she could never make alone.
Verity was swept away. She was always moved by music, but this was beyond anything she’d ever experienced. The room, the crowd, disappeared from her consciousness. Only their twined voices existed. Meeting Lord Randolph’s intense blue eyes, she saw that he felt the same. It was as if their souls communed. She couldn’t look away.
The song came to an end. The harmony died. Verity’s careful breath control evaporated. Her hands shook. Lord Randolph blinked. He looked down at the keys of the pianoforte.
The burst of applause was a stunning intrusion. They both started. Verity felt the pounding palms as an intolerable sound. She wanted to put her hands over her ears. Lord Randolph recovered more quickly. He rose, took her hand, and led her in a bow. Verity clung to his fingers.
People rushed over, full of chattering praise. They were like a surging mob. Lord Randolph let go of her hand, and Verity felt bereft. Clearly she’d judged this man too hastily. She wished she could take back some of the things she’d said to him. All of the things, really.
As Randolph acknowledged the barrage of compliments, he struggled to gather his scattered faculties, and to comprehend that…extraordinary experience. He was astonished and unsettled and aroused. He’d never imagined such an instant, automatic link. And yet it had happened. He couldn’t deny that. With a rude girl who didn’t even like him, an inner voice warned. Who scorned his countrified position. Who thought him, in a word, a failure.
“Oh, Miss Sinclair, the archbishop must be so proud of you,” simpered a turbaned lady at his elbow.
And there was that, Randolph thought. He mustn’t forget that complication. This was all as unfortunate as it was unexpected. He struggled to control his expression. Feeling uncomfortably exposed, he turned.
As if he’d spoken his need aloud, he found Sebastian beside him. “All right, there, Ran?” he said.
His hulking military brother could be remarkably like a sheltering wall, Randolph thought. “Need a moment,” he said.
Sebastian nodded. “You don’t like noise after you’ve been playing. Noticed that. Come along.”
Gratefully allowing himself to be guided, Randolph noted that Sebastian could be quite sensitive. People didn’t know that about him. Miss Sinclair was staring as if he’d abandoned her to ravening hordes. No, she wasn’t. Couldn’t be. He wasn’t thinking straight.
In a far corner of the room, Randolph’s family closed around him, a comforting bastion.
“That was splendid,” said Flora.
Robert nodded agreement with his wife. “I haven’t heard you play in a while. Vastly improved.”
Randolph appreciated the praise. His most tonnish brother was more likely to twit than compliment. But he knew it was undeserved in this case. His talent had been…amplified, exalted by his partner.
“Plenty of time to practice, I suppose, up there in the wilds of Northumberland.”
That was more like the Robert he knew, and cut a bit too close after Miss Sinclair’s remarks.
“It was absolutely beautiful,” said Georgina.
“Top-notch,” agreed Sebastian.
The pair exchanged one of their warm marital glances. Which were endearing, not annoying, Randolph told himself. He gathered more of his scattered wits. Miss Sinclair sang very well. So did he. They’d performed a successful duet, nothing more. He’d heard musicians wax enthusiastic about collaboration. None had ever mentioned being aroused, however.
Randolph looked over Robert’s shoulder at Miss Sinclair. She was still surrounded by an admiring circle. Bright hair, gown of angelic white so tantalizingly filled by a shapely figure. Those blue-green eyes had threatened to drown him as they sang. It was unfair. He wasn’t looking for an enigma. He had a plan.
“Yes, of course I’m going,” said Robert. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
Randolph reined in his wandering attention. “Going where?”
“To see that German fellow,” replied Sebastian. “The one who runs his fingers over your head and then cuts up your character.” He shook his head.
“He’ll muss your hair,” Georgina told Robert with a teasing smile.
Robert smiled back. “I shall, of course, take a comb to the appointment.”
“You think there’s something in it?” Randolph asked. “This phrenology?”
“It’s become the fashion,” Robert replied. “I must keep up.”
“I thought you set fashions.”
“I set them. I shift them. I critique them.”
“From the wilds of Russell Square?” Randolph asked, getting his own back for the remark about Northumberland. Immediately, he worried that he’d insulted Flora’s family home.
“It’s not where you live,” said Robert airily. “It’s how.” Flora gave him a warm smile. He took her hand and kissed it.
All at once Randolph remembered a remark Robert had made after Sebastian’s wedding, wondering how many happy marriages there could be among six brothers. Considering the matches of people they knew, he’d thought the odds must be against six.
Randolph looked at him now, gazing into the fiery blue eyes of his lovely wife. There was no doubt Robert was happy. Just as Sebastian was with his beautiful, blond Georgina. James, too, and Nathaniel and Alan, about to become fathers. They seemed as happy and contented as men could be. “I suppose the luck has run out,” Randolph muttered. He wasn’t to have what his brothers had found. He’d missed his chance.
“What luck?” asked Robert.
“Nothing.” His younger brother had always had the ears of a bat. They used to station Robert as lookout during midnight raids on the pantry at Langford. Robert could catch the creak of a floorboard at fifty paces.
“Your luck is certainly good,” Robert replied. “Unless you don’t care to sing again. Lady Tolland is bearing down on us. A guinea says she asks you.”
“Deuce take it,” said Randolph. He slipped behind Sebastian and then along the wall, scattering smiles and nods through several chattering groups. The experience with Miss Sinclair had been too…confusing. He didn’t wish to repeat it. Not now. Perhaps another time? Elsewhere. No, she didn’t like him. Hadn’t. What did she think now?
Lady Tolland was craning her neck, searching for him. He wasn’t going to spend the remaining hours of this party playing hide-and-seek with his hostess. That would be rude, not to mention ridiculous. Best to go now and let everyone forget about the song, as they inevitably would when the next interesting tidbit came along. He made his way to the door and departed.
Four
It was a perfect day for a walk, Verity thought. The sky was bright blue, without a hint of clouds. Hyde Park’s rafts of daffodils dipped and nodded in the balmy breeze. Birds trilled in the trees. Fashionable Londoners strolled and rode and drove all around them. And she had two lively companions to talk with. Verity paused to record the moment. She already thought of Lady Emma Stane as a true friend, and Miss Olivia Townsend was fast becoming one. Olivia knew so many people. Thanks to her presence, their progress was marked by smiles and bows and blithe greetings. Verity appreciated that, because—it was an odd thing—here in London she felt younger than her twenty-four years.
Back home in Chester, she was a familiar figure and, she thought, respected. After several years of attending assemblies, making calls with her mother, and undertaking various charitable works, she’d seen herself as an assured fixture in society. But London was so much larger, and grander. She felt as if she was starting all over again, which made her search for the perfect explorer more daunting.
For example, no
thing like that astonishing duet would have happened in Chester. She was acquainted with the musical circle there and couldn’t have been ambushed in that way. And so she wouldn’t be haunted by it now. Verity stood still, frowning. What an odd word to choose. Quite silly. She wasn’t in the least haunted. It was true that people still spoke of the performance four days later. And some women combined their compliments with sly glances, as if she’d done something clever. Their air of amused complicity made her uncomfortable. But haunted—no. Nonsense.
“What is it?” asked Emma. The others were several steps ahead.
Verity hurried to catch up. “Looking at the flowers,” she said.
They walked on, following a path that curved toward Rotten Row, with its press of carriages and riders. The wind gusted, whipping their skirts around their ankles. They laughed as they caught the cloth with one hand and held on to their bonnets with the other. “Don’t you wish we could just let go and run with the wind?” asked Olivia.
Emma shook her head. Verity had noticed that her blond friend was wary of any suggestion that was the least bit unconventional. She, on the other hand, relished the sentiment.
“Oh look, there’s Mr. Rochford,” Olivia added. She walked faster.
Keeping pace, Verity saw the interesting gentleman who’d been pointed out at her first ton party. He looked handsome and polished and perfectly at home on a magnificent black gelding. The horse tossed his head, clearly spirited. Mr. Rochford controlled him without visible effort. Verity could imagine this man heading into the wilds on such a mount. He came nearer. He was going to pass right by them. They wouldn’t speak, of course, not having been introduced.
Olivia put a hand to her chest, and in the next moment the celestial-blue scarf that had been draped around her neck billowed in the breeze. The filmy cloth took flight. It floated up, writhed and twisted, and veered right under the nose of Mr. Rochford’s mount.
The horse took instant exception to this mysterious attack. He snorted, half reared, and kicked out with his forelegs, then danced sideways as the scarf blew on. Mr. Rochford used knees and reins to contend with his mount as they nearly collided with another rider and threatened a barouche full of ladies just behind. With consummate skill, the man got the horse under control, bringing the gelding to a trembling standstill at the edge of the path.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” said Olivia, stepping right up to him. “I can’t imagine how that happened.”
“Carelessness, I expect,” Mr. Rochford replied curtly.
“Utterly shatterbrained,” she agreed. “I’m Olivia Townsend, you know. I expect you’re acquainted with my father.”
Verity stared at her. Emma’s mouth hung open at their friend’s blatant disregard for propriety.
Mr. Rochford looked surprised, then amused. “I am.” He bowed from the saddle and tipped his hat. “Thomas Rochford, at your service.”
“These are my friends,” Olivia added. “Lady Emma Stane and Miss Verity Sinclair.”
Emma, who had been shaking her head emphatically, went still and stared as if confronted with a poisonous snake. Verity suppressed what she very much feared was a nervous giggle. She sketched a curtsy.
“Ladies,” said Mr. Rochford, acknowledging them as he had Olivia.
Another rider came up with the escaped scarf. Olivia took it with a cordial nod. She did not introduce herself to the newcomer, Verity noticed. Instead, she smiled at Rochford and said, “We mustn’t keep you. I expect your horse is longing for a wild gallop.”
A tiny sound escaped Emma—something like “Erp.” Verity didn’t dare look at her.
“He may be,” Mr. Rochford replied. “He’s not likely to get one here in the park, of course.”
“Such a stuffy place.”
“I had thought so, Miss Townsend. Now, I’m not so sure.” With another tip of his hat and a glint in his blue eyes, Mr. Rochford rode on.
“Olivia!” hissed Emma.
The other girl shrugged off her glare. “We wanted to meet Mr. Rochford. Now we have.”
“I didn’t want to,” Emma declared. “Not in the least. Oh, you’re just like Hilda.”
“Who is Hilda?” Olivia asked with a smile. “It sounds as if I’d like her.”
Emma plumped down on a nearby bench in a flurry of sprigged muslin. She let out a great sigh.
“Her younger sister,” Verity supplied. “Prone to pranks, I believe.” Emma had shared a story or two during their conversations.
“This wasn’t a prank,” said Olivia. “It was a plan.”
“But how could you know that Mr. Rochford would ride by?”
“I didn’t.” The smaller girl shrugged. “The scarf was just one idea. I had others, for other contingencies.”
“Contingencies,” repeated Verity, enjoying the workings of Olivia’s mind.
“Come, Miss Sinclair, you wanted to meet him, didn’t you?”
Verity couldn’t deny it.
“So now you have.”
“Georgina will be annoyed,” said Emma from the bench. “Even though it was not my fault.” She sighed again. “She will say I must take responsibility for my life. But how can I when people just keep…springing things on me?” She gave Olivia another reproachful glance.
“Don’t tell her,” came the prompt reply.
Verity had been thinking something similar. She didn’t intend to mention this incident to her mother.
“She’ll find out,” said Emma. “There were people all around, Olivia. They saw us talking to him. That other man heard what you said about galloping. Which sounded quite improper. Somehow.”
“Oh, pish.” Olivia waved her friend’s concerns aside.
“Indeed?” Emma rose and rejoined them. “What will your mama say?”
The other girl grinned. “She’ll scold me, all the while trying not to laugh. She’ll say I must behave myself. And then she’ll give me a load of unnecessary advice about rakes and libertines.”
“Really?” Verity asked. She couldn’t imagine such a conversation. The word libertine would never pass her mother’s lips. The Townsend household must be very different from her home.
“As if I would ever do more than flirt,” Olivia added, tossing her head.
Verity gazed at her. From her crimped brown hair under a stylish bonnet to her shining half boots, Olivia Townsend was the image of London sophistication. Verity wanted to know her better. And meet her mother.
“Oh no!” said Emma. “There’s Flora. I wonder if she saw. What will I say?”
“Say nothing,” replied Olivia. “Pretend you don’t know what she’s talking about.”
“How can I—”
She broke off as the lady in question drew within earshot. She was accompanied by the young blond girl Verity had noticed at the musicale. “Hello, Emma.”
Emma murmured a nervous response.
The newcomer waited, then added, “Perhaps you would introduce us to your friend?”
“Oh!” Emma hastily presented Verity.
“How are you, Miss Townsend?” asked the pale-haired girl, who turned out to be Miss Frances Reynolds. “We met at a house party last autumn,” she told Verity.
“Isn’t it pleasant to have friends in London,” put in her companion. “I’m sure you’ll want to catch up.”
Miss Reynolds looked hopeful. Olivia said nothing, which surprised Verity.
They exchanged a few more remarks before the two parties went off in different directions.
“I don’t think Flora noticed anything,” Emma said when they were gone.
“Very likely not,” replied Olivia. “And if she thinks she’s going to foist that milksop miss off on me, she’s mightily mistaken.”
Verity and Emma stared. “Do you mean Miss Reynolds?” Verity asked.
“None other. She’s the most prigg
ish girl.”
“She didn’t seem so to me,” Emma ventured.
“You didn’t see her at Salbridge, constantly putting her oar in when no one wanted her opinion. She snaffled a major role in the play we put on, when she should have had the sense to efface herself and let her betters have the spotlight.”
“She wasn’t any good?” Verity asked, a little shocked at her new friend’s sharpness.
“What is snaffled?” Emma asked. “Slang, I suppose.” She sounded resigned.
Olivia made a dismissive gesture. “Miss Reynolds was adequate, when she wasn’t using the opportunity to make sheep’s eyes at Charles Wrentham. Which was nearly always.”
“She spoiled the play?” Verity asked, attempting to understand Olivia’s attitude.
Surprisingly, Olivia giggled. “No. She didn’t.”
Verity remained puzzled.
“She’ll find it harder to push herself forward here in London,” Olivia continued. “I certainly won’t be helping her. I wonder…”
“What?” asked Verity when Olivia said no more.
“We shall see” was the mysterious reply.
“People are looking at us,” said Emma.
“Isn’t that why we’re here?” asked Olivia. But she led them along the path toward the gates.
* * *
Randolph plucked out a run of notes on his lute. He could play parts of the melody now, but the sound was still far from the golden song he’d heard during that strange interlude last summer when an Indian gentleman had chanted in Sanskrit and tapped a drum. The combination had somehow evoked a vivid daydream in which Randolph saw himself in archaic surroundings playing a ballad that still haunted him. On a lute.
By an impulse both inexplicable and irresistible—an uncomfortable duo—he was driven to reproduce those notes exactly. No substitute would do. Not picking the tune out on the pianoforte, or trying to reproduce it with his voice. The whole thing was very odd, and so he kept his practice to the privacy of his bedchamber.
