by Music Box
Lord, had he been wrong.
“What your aunt told you is true,” he began, determined to absolve Hermione while skirting the same painful truth she herself had avoided. “Except the part about our separation being her fault. She wasn’t the villainess here; if anything, she was the heroine. I’m afraid that’s all I can say.”
Gaby nodded, twisting the handkerchief in her hands. “I understand this matter is a private one and that Aunt Hermione wishes for it to stay that way. Still, I thank you for your candor. It makes me all the more certain of my response to your question—the one about why I believe my doubts of you were misplaced. I didn’t change my mind about you, Mr. Lyndley. You did.”
“You’ve lost me.”
Tenderness softened her bright blue eyes. “I watched you today, not only with Aunt Hermione but with everyone. From Lily to Mrs. Gordon, from Wilson to Reaney—you accepted them all, not with judgment but with the very compassion Aunt Hermione boasts you possess. And then there’s Peter. What you did for him was more valuable than all the Queen’s jewels combined. Oh, everyone discerns Peter’s intelligence, but few take the time to delve deeper, to see beyond the surface to the extraordinary boy beneath. In your case, it took scarcely a minute before you recognized just how special he is, how desperately he wants to be a barrister, to apply his mind in a way that will help others. Did you see his face when you promised to show him your legal texts? He was positively glowing, ready to explode with excitement. I’ve never seen him so elated. He’s always rather quiet and inward, resigned to the fact that he can’t keep up with the others. You felt his yearning, Mr. Lyndley. That’s not done with the mind, no matter how much you profess otherwise. That, sir, is done with the heart.”
Gaby paused, drew a slow breath. “And speaking of the heart, let’s discuss your concern for Aunt Hermione, your keen sense of loyalty and respect for her.” Another pause, as if there was so much to say and insufficient words, or time, in which to say it. “Thank you for caring,” she finished in a small voice. “Regardless of your reasons for staying away, I’m glad that, at last, you’ve come to Nevon Manor. I believe it will make all the difference in the world—to Aunt Hermione, to all of us.” She held out Bryce’s handkerchief, dispelling her solemn mood with a tiny speculative smile. “And now, I’d best get to Lily. Heaven only knows what havoc Crumpet has wreaked by this time.”
Automatically, Bryce took the folded square of linen, his fingers brushing Gaby’s, his gaze flitting over her delicate, fine-boned features with more than a flicker of amazement. Never had he encountered someone who demonstrated such natural and open expressions of emotion, who said what she thought and displayed what she felt without hesitation or censure. An open book—how incredibly refreshing in a world of self-containment and false veneers.
A world to which he himself subscribed.
“Mr. Lyndley?”
Gaby’s questioning tone told Bryce he’d been staring. “Yes?” Recovering himself, he found he was curiously loath to let her leave, despite the fact that his mind was screaming its need to properly digest the morning’s events. Did his reticence stem from the dozen questions he wanted answered, or was it a simple reaction to how very much he was enjoying her company?
“I really must be on my way,” Gaby repeated, her expression uncertain and a trifle apologetic. “Can the remainder of your questions wait until later?”
“That depends,” Bryce heard himself say. “Will I see you later?”
“Of course.” Gaby’s nod was definitive. “At lunch.”
“And may I ask my horde of questions then?”
“By all means.”
“In that case, go to Lily.” He stepped back, making a wide sweep with his arm and watching as she gathered up her skirts and walked toward the doorway. “Gabrielle?”
She turned, brows raised in question.
“Thank you for showing me to my room.”
Warm color tinged her cheeks. “Welcome to Nevon Manor, Mr. Lyndley.”
Quick as the white rabbit, she was gone.
Downstairs, Chaunce reentered the library, shutting the door and placing a tray on the side table. “Your medicine, my lady,” he announced.
Hermione sighed, leaning back against the cushions of the settee. “Thank you, Chaunce,” she managed in a whisper.
“The others have returned to their chores,” he advised her, “and the library door is locked.”
One eye cracked open, and she peeked up at him from beneath her lashes. “We’re alone?”
“Quite alone, madam.”
“Excellent.” Leaping lightly to her feet, Hermione smoothed her hair into place, facing Chaunce with a glow in her eyes. “Splendidly done, my friend. A fine onset.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Deliberately, Chaunce poured a measure of liquid into a cold glass of water. “Your medicine,” he reminded her.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Beaming, Hermione hurried forward and took the glass, drinking it down with great enthusiasm. “Thank you, Chaunce. You do make the most delicious lemon water.”
“I try, my lady.” Replacing the refreshment on its tray, he clasped his hands behind his back, inclining his head in question. “How did it go?”
“Better than even I expected—worth every dreadful moment of the past week’s feigned infirmity.” She interlaced her fingers, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Did you hear them laughing together in the hallway?”
“I did indeed. Their banter accompanied me all the way to the pantry.” A satisfied smile. “So their first meeting was a success.”
“A huge success. According to my sources, Bryce rarely laughs and never lets down his aura of reserve, especially with that woman he’s been escorting about Town.”
Chaunce’s lips twitched. “That woman, as you refer to her, is a well-bred young lady from a fine family.”
“I don’t care. She’s all wrong for Bryce. I know it, you know it, and soon Bryce will know it, too. I intend to make quick work of Luanda Talbot.”
“I’m sure you will. But getting back to the immediate issue, how did today’s meeting with Mr. Lyndley go? How did you fare?”
Hermione’s smile faded a bit. “As well as could be expected, given the circumstances. At least he heard me out. I was half afraid he’d bolt before I’d finished.”
“You told him about the guardianship?”
“No, Chaunce, I didn’t dare mention that—yet. ʼTwas enough that I asked him to inherit Nevon Manor and all it entails. That in itself was a shock. I shudder to contemplate what his reaction would have been had I proclaimed the rest in the very same breath.”
“So that’s all you discussed—inheriting Nevon Manor?”
“That and revising my will. He had a dozen questions about Thane and my motives.”
“We knew he would.”
“Yes, we did. In any case, I’ve given him a great deal to mull over. He’s met the staff. Knowing Bryce’s level of compassion, he understands what I need of him—and why.”
“But not all of it.”
“No, not all of it.”
Chaunce pursed his lips. “Still, I do believe I can discard our original plan, devised before the duke’s passing. His Grace is no longer a threat, and Mr. Lyndley is very much here. So no creative methods will be necessary.”
“True.” Hermione sighed. “Such a stubborn man, Richard was. He could have reveled in the splendid man his son has become. And instead …” She broke off with a shrug. “What’s done is done. Richard is gone, along with all the pain he inflicted on Bryce’s life. Now ʼtis time for me to change the course of things, to rectify the future. I’d undo the past if I could, but I fear such a feat is beyond even my capabilities. But the future … ah, now, that is another matter entirely.” She paced about, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “We’ll continue our strategy with arrangements for lunch. Chaunce, make sure Gaby is seated next to Bryce.”
“It’s already been arranged, my lady. Also, with regard to Miss Gaby, you
’ll be pleased to learn that she has yet to return from showing Mr. Lyndley to his quarters.”
“Wonderful!” Hermione clapped her hands together. “That was an excellent touch, Chaunce, arranging for Gaby to show Bryce to his room. You’re becoming quite adept as a matchmaker.”
“You’re a fine instructor, madam.”
“I’ve had years of self-tutoring in preparation for orchestrating Bryce and Gaby’s future. I mean for this plan to succeed. Thus far we’ve confronted and conquered step one. Nevertheless, we have a long way to go. Tonight, after Bryce feels a bit more settled in, I’ll proceed to step two: elaborating on my earlier request that he oversee the estate after my death. I’ll ask you to fetch your meticulously kept household accounts for the three of us to review together. Once that’s been done, I’ll explain to Bryce the provisions I’ve made for my staff—provisions I want him to ensure. Finally, and most crucially, I’ll reveal to him the single most significant part of my bequest.”
“The guardianship?”
An exhilarated nod. “The guardianship. At which point, Chaunce, you and I must hold our breath, gauge Bryce’s reaction, and await his decision—a decision I pray will be the one we seek.”
Delicately, Chaunce cleared his throat. “And if it’s not?”
Hermione’s smile was the essence of confidence. “Then we’ll simply have to change his mind.”
Chapter 3
GABY’S FINGERS DANCED OVER the keyboard, her eyes sliding shut as the melody seeped inside her, pervading the room along with the late afternoon sunlight. She’d come here straight from Crumpet’s warren, where she’d lingered only long enough to verify that he’d stayed put, as commanded, since just before lunch. Reassured that no further escape attempts had been made, she’d headed directly to her beloved piano, somehow needing the peace and beauty only Beethoven could provide.
Some of her happiest hours were spent here, in the richly decorated green velvet music room that brought her closer to her feelings, her thoughts … and her memories.
Today it was the present rather than the past that prevailed, her thoughts scrambling over one another in their efforts to be heard.
Having shared two introductions, one chat, and an afternoon meal with Bryce Lyndley, Gaby had determined that he was everything and nothing she’d expected.
He’d been an absent yet exalted presence at Nevon Manor since the day she’d come to live here, the pride of Aunt Hermione’s life and an example to them all. How many stories had she heard of the boy whose intelligence and compassion had propelled him into a success that far surpassed anything expected of a commoner? How many times had she watched Aunt Hermione pore over newspaper clippings describing Bryce Lyndley’s latest legal accomplishments or most recent social appearance?
Part of her had been in awe, inspired by the reality that decency and commitment truly could prevail.
And part of her had wondered just how decent Bryce Lyndley really was—how someone so benevolent could neglect a woman like Aunt Hermione, a rare and remarkable woman who loved him like a son.
Clearly there was more here than met the eye.
But the one time she’d broached the subject, asking Aunt Hermione why Mr. Lyndley never visited, her aunt had become visibly shaken, offering a swift, vague answer before turning away, eyes brimming with tears.
At that moment Gaby had actually hated the man.
Later she’d calmed down, reminding herself that she knew little of the truth and could therefore not assign blame.
And now that she’d met and talked with him, she was more confused than ever. For the extraordinarily handsome man with the infectious smile, the uncanny gift for understanding and relating to people, and the probing forest-green eyes was very much the person Aunt Hermione had depicted.
With one variation—the pain Gaby saw reflected in those eyes.
Pain that was all too similar to what she’d read on Aunt Hermione’s face the day she’d questioned her, a deep-seated suffering Gaby was willing to bet was integrally tied to whatever secrets her aunt and Mr. Lyndley shared … and guarded.
On that notion, Gaby’s fingers paused, caressing the piano keys as she thought. True, what was between her aunt and Bryce Lyndley was none of her concern. Still, anything that hurt Aunt Hermione hurt her as well. The enormous-hearted woman was everything to her—her guardian, her friend, the head of her family … not merely the mistress of the household but, in all ways that mattered, her mother.
Gaby’s memories of her real mother and father hadn’t faded. They were always there, warm and vivid, wrapped in an eternal cocoon that was tucked away in her mind and heart, to be called upon at will. But the agony of losing them had slowly diminished over the years, and that she owed to Aunt Hermione, who had taken a traumatized five-year-old into her home, held her while she cried, then patiently coaxed her from her grief into a world of nurturing and love.
Slowly, and without Gaby ever feeling it happen, Hermione Nevon’s devotion had worked its magic, and suddenly, one reassuring day, Gaby had realized that her loss had become bearable.
Although not even her aunt’s love could erase the unshakable, nightmarish memory of how her parents had died …
No, Gaby castigated herself, throwing back her shoulders and staring fixedly at the ivory keys. Now wasn’t the time to think about that. Now was the time for getting to know Bryce Lyndley.
At least as much of him as he would share. He’d been as guarded at the dining room table as he’d been when she’d shown him to his chambers, making polite conversation with everyone, listening intently yet offering nothing of his own life in return. Immediately following the meal, he’d excused himself, returning to his chambers yet again, sending for no one but Peter.
Gaby smiled, remembering how Peter had glowed when he emerged an hour later, a thick legal volume clutched in his hands. Why, his limp had been nearly indiscernible. And all because of the enigmatic Bryce Lyndley.
With a sigh, she resumed playing.
“Pardon me, am I intruding?”
The object of Gaby’s thoughts addressed her from the music room doorway, and her head came up, her gaze darting over to meet his. “No, of course not.” She eased back on the bench, dropping her hands to her sides. “Come in.”
“Please don’t stop,” Bryce requested quietly, crossing over to stand beside her. “You play beautifully.”
His compliment sent a surge of pleasure coursing through her. “Thank you. I love the piano. I’ve played since I was six. Aunt Hermione arranged for me to have lessons the instant she saw how enthralled I became every time I touched the keys.”
“You’re fond of Beethoven’s works?”
“Very,” Gaby answered fervently. “I enjoy the works of many composers, but there’s something hauntingly beautiful about Beethoven’s musical pieces—at least to me. My sentiments are a little difficult to explain.”
“You don’t have to explain.” To Gaby’s surprise, Bryce sank down beside her on the piano bench. “Music is one of the few things that must be felt rather than defined. Some people are capable of doing that, others are not.”
Gaby studied him with solemn insight. “And you’re one of those who are.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “How would you know that?”
“I just do.” A glimmer of humor shone through her gravity, sparkled in her eyes. “Let’s say it’s instinct—another of those things that must be felt rather than defined.”
Bryce chuckled, a deep, husky sound. “A point well-taken.” He gestured toward the piano. “Please, continue. I’m enjoying your recital immensely. ‘Moonlight Sonata’ is one of my favorites.”
“Mine as well,” Gaby agreed. “Beethoven was a perfect example of one who felt his music. Even though he was deaf, he was able to create his masterpieces. ʼTis as if the symphonies just echoed inside him, needing no discernible ear to affirm their beauty.” With that, she fell silent, her fingers repositioning themselves, flowing over the exquisi
te notes.
All else vanished, and Gaby sank into the music, totally absorbed until the final notes of the piece reverberated through the room.
“Magnificent.” The sound of Bryce’s quiet praise yanked her back to awareness. “And precisely what I needed. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Gaby inclined her head quizzically. “Although, if I remember correctly, what you needed was rest. I assumed you were still in your chambers getting some.”
“I tried—all day, in fact. It’s no use. My mind is racing and refuses to cooperate. So I took a stroll, hoping it would accomplish what hours in my room could not. Your music drifted out to me through the open window. It seemed to offer me the peace I craved. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.” Bryce leaned forward, gripping his knees and idly rubbing his forefinger over the fine woolen twill of his dark trousers. “I felt a bit self-conscious about entering the room when I did. You play with such emotion—it almost made me feel that I was intruding on something intensely personal. I didn’t want to invade your privacy.” A rueful smile. “But I suppose I did anyway, didn’t I?”
“Not at all.” Gaby shook her head, sending a few stray tendrils of hair tumbling onto her cheeks. “I don’t mind company when I play, especially when that company is someone who appreciates Beethoven’s works as I do. In truth, I forget everyone’s presence, including my own, once my fingers touch the keys.”
“I can tell. Are you equally enthralled when others play?”
“Others?”
“I was referring to the symphony. Do you attend concerts often? I would think you’d revel in orchestral music.”
