Mistress of Melody

by Anthea Lawson

  Eager indeed. The time had come. In fact, it was for the best that he settle upon a suitable young lady. Someone who would keep his attention away from distractions like Miss Lovell. She had a kiss and a bauble from him, and that was one thing too many.

  Though deep down he could not quite bring himself to regret either.

  “Begin playing again in a quarter-hour,” he told Miss Lovell.

  He strode to the door, his aunt hovering behind him like an overlarge hummingbird. Just before he exited he raised a brow at the footman, who shook his head. So, Mr. Burke had not yet snapped up the bait. Well, he had another chance.

  “Who will it be?” Aunt Agatha asked, threading her arm though his as they turned into the hallway.

  Morgan set his jaw and remained silent. He’d hoped the choice would be clear, but he still was unable to fix upon one particular lady over another. Indecision pulsed uncomfortably at his temples.

  “Oh heavens, you haven’t decided?” Aunt Agatha halted, her expression aghast. “Morgan, you must. Surely one of the young ladies, Miss Adderly perhaps—”

  “Her father has a regrettable habit of gambling.”

  “Then one of the Cornell girls—”

  “Their brother was sent down from Oxford.”

  “No family is immune from some small misdeeds.” Her tone held a sharp edge. “It’s ridiculous to look for perfection from anyone. Even yourself.”

  “If I can’t hold myself to the highest standards, how can I expect others to rise above their own awful humanity? Without that striving, all of Society would be lost.”

  “Then you’d best marry Lady Anne,” she said tartly. “Lord Dearborn’s reputation for dullness is well earned.”

  Morgan stared at the gold-figured wallpaper, attempting to master his seething emotions. This should not be so damnably difficult.

  “You are correct,” he said at last. “Dearborn’s daughter is the least objectionable of the lot.”

  Aunt Agatha let out a gusty sigh and took his arm again. “I despair for you at times, Morgan, truly I do. Tell me, do you feel even the smallest spark of affection for Lady Anne?”

  “I hardly know her.”

  “Attraction, then.”

  “Gentlemen do not discuss such things with ladies.” He began marching down the hall, avoiding his aunt’s gaze.

  Certainly, Lady Anne was a pretty girl. And he’d proved just moments ago that his baser urges were not buried as deep as he’d thought. He could imagine kissing her. Even if her hair was blonde instead of raven-wing black, and her eyes innocent blue, not dark and sorrow-tinged.

  Enough. He would cease thinking of Miss Lovell.

  Morgan squared his shoulders and strode through the drawing room doors. The chatter in the room rose a notch. Aunt Agatha gave his arm a squeeze, then stepped back.

  Throat dry, he scanned the assembled guests. Hopeful gazes pricked his as he turned, looking for the particular bright shade of Lady Anne’s hair. There she was, near the front of the room. Her eyes met his, and a pink blush colored her pale cheeks.

  An anticipatory silence fell as he approached her. Into that quiet, he spoke.

  “Lady Anne, will you allow me to call upon you tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I…” Her voice squeaked upward, and she took a moment to gather herself. “Yes, my lord. That would please me very much.”

  “Excellent.” He raised his voice. “I hope you are all ready for the second half of the musicale.”

  The room filled with speculative whispers and unhappy faces. He waited until Lady Anne sat, then once again took the chair next to her. On his other side, Miss Cornell gave him a glum look.

  He should have delayed until the end of the evening to make his selection—but at least it was done. The hollowness he felt inside was simply that of a man following his duty. Nothing more. Ruthlessly, he tamped down the searing feeling that he’d made the wrong choice. As the Earl of Silverton, he had made the only one possible.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Aha,” Mr. Burke said from his station at the cracked-open parlor door, where he stood peering into Lord Silverton’s drawing room. “It seems the gossips were correct.”

  “About what?” Jessa wiped the light dusting of rosin from her instrument and attempted to keep her voice even.

  She felt as though the proof of the earl’s kiss must blaze above her head, a scarlet sign visible to everyone. Yet neither her guardian nor the earl’s aunt had seemed to notice anything amiss, despite the fact she was utterly marked by the experience.

  Her lips still tingled with the memory of how his mouth had descended to hers, and a curious heat spread through her limbs at the recollection of his arm around her waist, pulling her tightly against his tall, well-muscled form.

  It had not been her first kiss, true—but the earl’s warm lips and firm embrace were worlds removed from Matteu’s inexpert kisses and brief caresses. Indeed, she was a lifetime away from the sweet shadows beyond the lanterns where she and Matteu had first declared their undying love for one another. Undying—for the space of four days, until a different girl caught his fancy.

  Just as well, for Jessa had been growing increasingly uncomfortable with his forays into intimacy. On their last night, she’d spoken sharply to him as he’d fumbled at her dress. The next evening, he had led Mirabelle into the shadows instead.

  Had Matteu’s kisses been like the one she’d just received, however, she might now be happily wed, with barefoot children tumbling about the camp.

  Her heart tightened, and she blinked back sorrow for the lost past, and a future that was never hers.

  “It would appear the earl has chosen a bride,” Mr. Burke said.

  Jessa’s distress blazed higher at the words. Foolishness. One kiss meant nothing—at least, nothing to the earl. He was a peer of the realm, and she a part-Gypsy musician.

  “Who is it?” she asked, gathering her instrument and coming to stand behind her guardian.

  “Dearborn’s daughter. She’ll make a pretty bride. If only the gossips were not here, I could turn a penny on this information.” He grunted. “They’re ready. Play well, Jessamyn.”

  He meant play entrancingly, distractingly, so that he might go about his sordid business. Jessa glanced at the footman who had been shadowing Mr. Burke all evening. At least Lord Silverton was wise enough to oversee her guardian, but she had no doubt the footman would be given the slip in less than a quarter-hour.

  Mr. Burke pushed open the door, and Jessa stepped into the drawing room. It felt like stepping into a foggy London twilight, the mood of the room was so gloomy. The lamps struggled against the shadows. In the entire audience, the only person who seemed to be smiling was Lady Anne.

  Jessa darted a glance at the earl as the applause faded. His mouth was set in an uncompromising line, his eyes hard. For a moment, she pitied the yellow-haired young lady seated next to him.

  Then Lady Anne patted his arm and gave him a look that was half infatuation, half greed, and Jessa found that she had, in fact, more sympathy for Lord Silverton than the young woman he had chosen to court. Admiration could so easily fade, and money was a poor substitute.

  Regardless of her sympathies, her task was to lift the temper of the crowd, to push back the dimness. No matter how bleak or difficult it would be to cheer the room, the Gypsy Violinist always rose to the occasion.

  She began quietly, in her favorite key of E Dorian. The minor notes acknowledged the unhappiness on the faces of most of the listeners. There was no point in throwing cheerful notes at them—not until she’d assuaged their melancholy. And yet the mode of the music held an unexpected upturn at the end of the scale, a stray beam of light breaking through dark clouds.

  Slowly, Jessa coaxed the listeners forward, letting the music twine about them like some sweet fragrance, half forgotten. Autumn roses, or fresh-baked bread. Yes, the music whispered, the world is full of disappointment, but hope remains.

  The melody beneath her fingers modula
ted as she began to add more sharps. First a brightness here, then another, until she had climbed into A major: the happiest of keys.

  Her bow danced then, stitching arpeggios between the simple notes of the tune, until it was embroidered with silver, with gold. The earl leaned back, the line of his mouth easing, and she felt ridiculously satisfied at the sight.

  But she would not think of his mouth.

  Jessa closed her eyes and let the music fly through her, speaking of sunlight glimmering off water, the taste of ripe cherries, the chime of unfettered laughter. All the goodness the world held, the small moments of wonder that could keep a heart beating, moment to moment, even in the face of unutterable despair.

  Up and up she played the tune, letting it climb like a bird in flight. A lark, high in the clear blue air, until at last it had flown beyond sight. With a deep breath, she let the last note ring, pure and true.

  Stillness filled the room for a perfect moment. She smiled and opened her eyes, and applause surged like a wave upon the shore.

  Even though not every face held pleasure, enough did. The earl had chosen his bride, but already the bitter shade of failure was fading from some of the audience. One auburn-haired young lady’s eyes sparkled, as though she were thinking of the man she truly wished to marry. A matron in the second row leaned over to speak to her daughter, her face untroubled.

  For the next half-hour, Jessa was careful not to let the music stray back into somberness. She performed a sprightly Irish melody popularized by Thomas Moore, and then one of Becker’s recent waltzes for solo violin. Toes and fans tapped as she swooped through the elegant yet simple melody, dipping and turning as one might in the dance.

  Not that she had ever waltzed, but the music was so evocative, she felt as though she knew the steps and twirls by heart.

  At the close of the piece, she bowed and made to leave the room.

  “Encore!” Lady Agatha cried.

  The audience called their approval. It was not unexpected. Jessa was usually persuaded back for at least one tune at the close of her performances, if not more.

  She inclined her head in agreement, and launched into a sîrba. The insistent beat was studded with triplets. In memory, she heard the stomp of hard-soled shoes, saw the swish of bright skirts as the dancers performed the flashing steps. It was best danced on a hard surface—the dusty floor of a barn, or hinged doors laid down for a makeshift stage, so that the rhythm of the feet could play counterpoint.

  At the end, she was breathless from the pace. A strand of her hair clung to the side of her perspiration-damp neck as she bowed.

  When she rose, her gaze met the earl’s. The appreciation in his eyes warmed her even more than the generous applause. Her attention slipped to Lady Anne, who threaded her arm through the earl’s with a proprietary expression.

  Keeping the smile on her face, Jessa bowed again. The splinter pricking at her heart meant nothing.

  “Thank you, all,” she said. “It was a pleasure playing for you this evening.”

  The earl gave her a nod of dismissal, and she measured her steps back to the refuge of the small parlor.

  As she entered, her guardian tucked a notebook into his pocket, then rose from the yellow-striped chair he’d been occupying.

  “Another excellent performance.” His voice was overfull of satisfaction, and Jessa’s spirits sank at what that must mean.

  Despite the watchful footman, her guardian had managed to ferret out some dark secret of the earl’s. She swallowed a sigh. Why must every noble have a past littered with mistakes for Mr. Burke to hold over their heads?

  And why was she so keenly disappointed that the Earl of Silverton had proved no exception?

  “Pack up, girl,” Mr. Burke said. “Time to go.”

  As the grim-faced footman showed them to the servants’ entrance, Jessa caught a glimpse through the drawing room doorway of the Earl of Silverton. Lady Anne hung off his arm, her bright laughter punctuating the air.

  He lifted his head, as if feeling Jessa’s gaze. Their eyes met, then held for a heartbeat too long. Jessa’s pulse beat against her throat.

  Then he looked away and gave Lady Anne a tight smile.

  “Come.” Mr. Burke prodded Jessa’s shoulder.

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  The sounds of mirth faded as they followed the footman down the back hallway. Stepping out of Trevethwick House, she slipped her hand into the pocket of her pelisse, where she’d tucked the bauble the earl had given her. The glass was cool under her fingers, but warmed to her touch. She only hoped Mr. Burke would not take it from her, as he had the queen’s token. It was a small trinket, but far more important than he might suspect.

  It was an enchanted talisman, to keep her sister from wandering the night.

  It was the perfect memory of a kiss.

  ***

  “Well!” Aunt Agatha smiled brightly as the last of the carriages rattled away over the cobblestones. “A successful evening on all counts, I would say.”

  Morgan stood a moment longer at the open door, hoping the night air would clear his head. Unfortunately, there was no erasing the memory of kissing Jessamyn Lovell.

  “Indeed,” he said. “You were a fine hostess. Thank you for undertaking this event on my behalf.”

  “Pish.” She gave him an affectionate swat on the arm. “Let the butler close the door—and do contrive to leave your moodiness outside. We can speak more comfortably over a glass of brandy. Well, brandy for me. You may have your usual water, you silly boy.”

  It was no use protesting his aunt’s eccentricities, or explaining his own. Aunt Agatha knew well enough why he preferred water, or the occasional glass of lesser spirits. Letting the words dissolve on his tongue, he turned and followed her bobbing scarlet plume down to the study.

  The fringe-shaded lamps pushed back the shadows, and a small fire warmed the room. Not that the evening was particularly chilly, but he’d noticed that Aunt Agatha often used a shawl even when he considered the air perfectly comfortable. Anticipating this conversation, he’d directed the servants to light the coals on the hearth.

  As he strode past his desk, Morgan glanced at the tidy pile of papers he’d set there. They appeared undisturbed, but he knew that the contents had been carefully sifted by Mr. Burke. A slight smile curled the corners of his mouth. The clink of the brandy decanter against the glass was the sound of his plans falling into place.

  “I’m glad you are satisfied with the outcome of this evening,” Aunt Agatha said as she accepted the half-full glass of brandy he handed her.

  “I am,” he said. Though the prickling sensation inside his chest was more resignation than satisfaction.

  “Lady Anne is a lovely girl. You’ll come to love her in time, I’m certain of it. Once you’ve kissed her once or twice.”

  “Aunt—”

  “Oh, sit down and don’t play the prude with me.” She waved her hand at him. “We both know it’s true. Even though I suspect you haven’t kissed a woman in far too long, you’re a handsome young man. Establish a certain degree of intimacy, and the heart will soon follow.”

  Morgan took a swallow of cool water from his own glass, letting the liquid carry away the scorch of his all-too-recent kiss. Though it was an indelicate subject, he hoped his aunt was right. Clearly a lack of female companionship had brought his baser urges to the fore, where they fastened on the nearest available woman. All he needed to do was transfer the focus of his desire from Jessamyn Lovell to Lady Anne. Simple enough.

  “What will your first outing together be?” Aunt Agatha asked.

  “Well, I intend to call upon her tomorrow,” he said.

  She released a gusty breath and sent her gaze up to the ceiling, as if searching for patience. “As I feared, you’ve given this courtship almost no thought. Really, Morgan, it’s fortunate I’ve decided to remain here another month. You need a woman’s guidance in this matter.”

  How like his aunt to invite herself to stay. Yet
instead of being irritated by her presumption, he was obscurely glad of it. In truth, he was finding himself a bit at sea when it came to the wooing of a young lady of quality.

  Much as he disliked giving up control, he had to admit that his aunt’s input was necessary in this endeavor. The Earl of Silverton must carry out a successful courtship.

  “Very well,” he said. “What do you suggest?”

  Aunt Agatha beamed at him. “I knew you’d see the sense in it. We shall have another gathering soon, perhaps a garden party. But first, you will invite Lady Anne to go riding in Hyde Park.”

  Morgan swallowed back his automatic refusal. Although he detested playing the ton’s games, his aunt’s suggestion was sound. The obligatory parade of see-and-be-seen in the park would cement his intentions toward Lady Anne in the eyes of Society.

  “Splendid,” he said.

  His aunt raised an eyebrow at his tone. “You need to muster up more enthusiasm than that, my boy. I declare, your first kiss with Lady Anne cannot come soon enough.”

  “Aunt.” He gave her a repressive look.

  “And don’t forget to take flowers when you pay your call,” she continued, uncowed. “Pink roses, with two white carnations and a spray of myrtle. That should do admirably. Not too forward, yet the meaning is clear enough.”

  “If you say so.”

  She patted his knee. “Trust me in this, Morgan. And now, I’m off to bed. Would you ring for my maid?”

  He rose and jangled the bell pull. When Aunt Agatha’s maid arrived, he kissed his aunt’s cheek.

  “Good night,” he said. “Pleasant dreams.”

  “I believe they shall be filled with Gypsy melodies.” She let out a contented sigh. “Such a delightful evening.”

  Morgan kept the frown off his face until she departed, then slumped back into his armchair and stared at the hearth flames. He feared his own dreams would be full of Miss Lovell’s influence, as well. Black hair like silk, passion-filled eyes, and a lush mouth he wanted to kiss for days.