The Dove Formatted

by welis

  They did not deserve salvation, and she refused to pull them out of the hole of poverty they’d buried themselves in.

  Rising from the sofa, she set out for her chambers, already mulling over what ensemble she would wear for the musicale.

  That evening, Daphne arrived at the Bellingham residence promptly at eight. Shunning the practice of arriving fashionably late, she hoped to avoid being gawked at by the entire assembly. She was greeted by Winifred, who stood in the vestibule wearing a pale yellow silk evening gown and white gloves. At her side, a tall, slender man with her coloring and features smiled down at her, his expression open and friendly.

  “I cannot tell you how delighted I am that you’ve come,” Winifred said, looping an arm through Daphne’s and pulling her forward to meet the man. “This is my brother, Mr. George Bellingham. George, this is Lady Daphne Fairchild.”

  “It is an honor,” George said, bowing to her as if she were a lady and not a whore.

  She had not expected such deference, despite being entitled to it as an earl’s daughter.

  “The honor is mine.”

  As a footman came forward to accept Daphne’s shawl, a woman she recognized as Mrs. Bellingham appeared on the staircase, swiftly descending from the upper floor. She was lovely in demure dove grey silk, but her expression conveyed a sense of panic.

  “Mother, whatever is the matter?” Winifred asked. “This is Lady Daphne, by the way.”

  Lady Bellingham gave her a tight smile. “Hello, dear. Do forgive me, but I am in the middle of a crisis. One of the musicians I had hired for the evening has just sent word that she cannot come … a cough or some such thing.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Daphne replied, for lack of anything better to say.

  “Which musician?” George asked, his face a mask of bland, polite interest.

  Something told Daphne he did not care one way or the other. A young, unattached gentleman like him would probably much rather spend his evening at a club or even the theater.

  “The harpist,” the mother replied with a sigh. “You know, the one who played at the Mallory soirée last fall.”

  “Ah, what a shame,” Winifred lamented. “She was quite wonderful. Oh, but Lady Daphne is a harpist, are you not?”

  Daphne’s face warmed when all their eyes landed upon her.

  “Erm … not professionally,” she joked.

  “Oh, do not be modest,” Winifred insisted. “I can remember attending a dinner at … at Fairchild House.”

  Silence fell in their midst as she paused and cringed, as if unable to believe she’d brought up her former connection to the Fairchild family.

  Clearing her throat, Winifred pressed on. “At any rate, I remember retiring to a drawing room after dinner and you entertaining us with such beautiful music. I don’t think I’ve heard anyone play as well as you.”

  “Now, Winnie, we could not possibly impose upon Lady Daphne that way,” Mrs. Bellingham insisted. “She came to listen to music, not play it.”

  “Oh, but I do not mind,” Daphne blurted.

  She found that she truly meant it. It would be nice to play again, as she had not touched a harp since her time at Dunnottar; had not realized how much she’d missed it until just now. As well, it would be a pleasant way to pass the evening, instead of worrying over the sorts of cutting remarks she might be forced to endure, or even receiving the cut direct in front of a room full of people. Performing would put a bit of a veil up between herself and the other guests.

  The more she thought on the idea, the more she wanted to do it.

  “Please, allow me to help,” she added. “I understand how horrible a missing performer can be for a musicale … especially one as anticipated as the harpist you had hired. I might not be her, but I can certainly serve as a passable replacement.”

  “A kind offer,” George chimed in. “Mother, perhaps you ought to take her up on it.”

  Mrs. Bellingham bit her lower lip, then glanced toward the front door. Someone had just knocked, and the butler now moved forward to open it and admit more guests. Time was running short for her to think of any other solution.

  “Very well,” she relented. “Thank you, dear. I can compensate you—”

  “There is no need,” she interjected. “I am happy to do it just for fun.”

  And to make amends, in whatever way she could, for the things her brother had done. She could not erase Bertram’s perfidy … but she could play the harp at this musicale. She could do something nice for this family.

  “Come along, then,” Mrs. Bellingham urged, placing a hand between Daphne’s shoulders and steering her toward the stairs. “Winnie and George, greet our guests and ensure they are escorted to the correct drawing room.”

  “Of course, Mother,” her son replied.

  Winifred had already crossed the vestibule to greet the first influx of guests. Daphne allowed Mrs. Bellingham to guide her up the stairs, not bothering to glance back to get a glimpse of whomever had just been escorted into the house. It did not matter who attended the musicale. Thanks to this fortuitous twist of fate, she would hardly have to interact with them.

  “I want you to know that Winifred is quite insistent upon standing by you,” the woman said as they reached the upper level of the house.

  “I am grateful,” she replied, for lack of anything better to say. “She is a wonderful person.”

  “She is … and perhaps a bit naive,” Mrs. Bellingham replied, opening the door to a drawing room and leading the way inside. “While I do worry what her reputation might suffer, I also realize how fickle the ton can be. I also understand things happen that … well, that aren’t any of my bloody business.”

  Daphne’s lips twitched as she tried to keep a straight face. “I see.”

  Turning to face her, the woman sighed. “I like to judge people on their character, my lady, and from what I know of you, you seem to be a good sort. If Winnie thinks so, then I have no reason to disagree.”

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “Thank you for rescuing us this evening,” Mrs. Bellingham countered. “You may search this box to select whatever compositions strike your fancy. In a quarter of an hour, a footman will come to fetch you and bring you to the smaller drawing room adjoining the one we will use this evening. He will offer you refreshment and ensure you have everything you need before your turn to perform.”

  “I will be ready,” Daphne assured her.

  Seeming satisfied with that, Mrs. Bellingham swept from the room and closed the door behind herself.

  Approaching the box resting on a side table near a high-backed armchair, she found a substantial collection of sheet music. Taking the chair, she set about rifling through it, grateful for the time to herself while the other guests filed in and filled the drawing room. She had been uncertain about attending the event, but had thought of Winifred’s words.

  You cannot hide forever.

  She had been right, and the time had come for Daphne to truly start enjoying her newfound freedom. Tonight, she would play for an audience—something she had secretly always wished to do. And she would enjoy it, without giving a single thought to a certain earl.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  dam took a sip of his champagne and cast a glance about the large, airy drawing room filled from corner to corner with friends and acquaintances of the Bellingham family. His connection to them came through the son, George, who had attended Oxford with him. The two had never been close, but he found George to be amiable and easy to tolerate—which was saying something, as he rarely possessed the patience to tolerate most people. Olivia had always teased him that he must be the surliest fellow she’d ever known—preferring brooding solitude to being surrounded by others.

  He bore it easily now, as he found the open curiosity with which the other guests approached him amusing. They were shameful in their quest for answers, trying to draw something about Daphne from him. He remained tightlipped, which only made them try harder, the men no bett
er than the tittering, gossiping women.

  There had been a slight break in the performances—which thus far had included an Italian opera singer, a string quartet, and a passably skilled pianist. Mrs. Bellingham had encouraged guests to take part in the refreshments that had been laid out, after which a harpist was to be followed by another performance from the opera singer.

  He had helped himself to champagne and began counting the minutes until he could politely take his leave. Pointless soirées such as these bored him beyond their purpose. He had come to be seen, and they’d seen him. Now, he was ready for food more substantial than finger sandwiches, and a drink stronger than the bubbly champagne.

  The need for a warm cunt nagged at him, so he supposed a visit to a whorehouse would have to cap his evening. Otherwise, it would only grow worse. He was not yet ready to go marching up to Daphne’s doorstep, and he needed to keep his cock under control until he was. Remembering that The White House in Soho Square was known for whores in a wide variety and who catered to every taste, he decided he might forgo his other plans and make his way there immediately after leaving the Bellinghams. The ache in his groin and the edge on his temper superseded his need for food or drink.

  “Bloody good to see you again, Hart,” George Bellingham remarked, sidling up to him with a fresh champagne glass in hand. “How long has it been? Five years, at least.”

  “Aye, that is correct,” he replied, finding that he was not in the mood for idle chatter—not now that he’d decided his nagging itch needed tending sooner rather than later.

  “How is life in Scotland?” the other man asked, oblivious to Adam’s increasing agitation. “Are you still hiding away in that old ruin of a castle?”

  “Not hiding so much as enjoying country life,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.

  “I cannot say I blame you,” George said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve heard the hunting there is magnificent.”

  Adam snorted sarcastically. “That, it is … better to be the hunter than the prey, eh?”

  George chuckled at that. “You are right about that. London during the Season makes me feel like a prized buck being inspected by every eligible chit who crosses my path. Mother is insufferable. She has steered me toward at least six debutantes this evening alone.”

  Adam did not reply to that, simply lifting his champagne flute and finishing it off.

  The fool did not know how fortunate he was to have a mother at all. What he wouldn’t give to have his own mother here to nag him about marriage and steer eligible chits into his path. He had almost made up his mind to say so when Mrs. Bellingham lightly tapped a fork against the side of her champagne glass, gaining the attention of her guests. Biting back a curse, he swiftly grabbed another champagne flute from a passing footman. His window of opportunity for escape had just closed, the little intermission having gone by faster than he’d expected.

  As they were herded back to their seats, conversation eventually faded to a dull buzz, then dispersed altogether. Downing his champagne in two swallows, he handed his flute off to yet another footman and moved toward the back row of chairs pointed at a small, elevated dais in the center of the room. Perhaps he could slip away while everyone was engrossed in the performance. He’d been here far longer than he’d intended as it was, and the room had begun to feel too small, closing in around him more and more with each passing second. Being accustomed to the large, open rooms of Dunnottar and the sprawling countryside of Scotland, he could not fathom how the residents of London could stand their cramped townhomes and overcrowded city streets.

  Noticing that a harp and stool had been placed at the center of the dais, he twisted his mouth to smother an amused smirk. He’d heard whispers of the absent harpist and wondered whose milky-faced daughter had been coerced into performing in her place. He could not decide if watching the unfortunate chit struggle through her compositions would prove tortuous or entertaining.

  The silence in the room erupted into whispers and gasps as said chit entered the room, her gown a sweep of navy silk gleaming in the candlelight as she ascended the dais.

  Adam’s hand curled into a fist as she sank down onto the stool as if it were a throne, keeping her back erect and her chin tilted at the haughty angle of a queen. His fingers itched to wrap around the slender column of that graceful neck, to leave his bite marks all over the delicate slopes of her bared shoulders. She kept her eyes lowered, making him want to approach her, grasp her hair and tilt her head back until she raised those eyes to his … until she looked at him and those deep blue depths shimmered with unshed tears and she made that little sound of fear mingled with arousal in the back of her throat.

  While he wrestled against his baser urges, the shock of laying eyes on their substitute harpist mingled with annoyance in his gut. He was supposed to confront her when he was ready, appearing in front of her at the opportune moment.

  Instead, she had caught him off guard, turning up in the very last place he would have expected her—and in the most unexpected way. He almost laughed aloud at the irony of it all—because, of course, their harpist couldn’t have been just any chit. Following the predictably unpredictable pattern of his existence, a twist of fate would place her at the center of the room he occupied. It had even ensured she was set on display, so he could stare at her openly, tracing the lines and curves of her body, running his gaze over her from head to toe just as he wished to do with his hands.

  He saw the moment his little dove recognized his presence in the room, drawing satisfaction from the way her breasts swelled as if she sucked in and held a sharp breath. The way her eyes flickered up to meet his for a fraction of a second before lowering again. The way she took her lip between her teeth and shifted on her stool, trying to compose herself in order to perform. One corner of his mouth twitched, a smirk he couldn’t control pulling at his lips in the face of her discomfort.

  It did not take much imagination to picture the gooseflesh appearing on the surface of her skin, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Like any creature stalked by its predator, she sensed the danger lurking just on the other side of the room. His mouth practically watered for a taste of her, for the sensation of her skin giving way beneath his teeth as he latched onto her and closed his jaw.

  It required every ounce of his discipline to keep from stomping down the narrow aisle between rows of chairs and grasp her by her hair, dragging her out of the room in full view of the Bellinghams’ guests.

  Instead, he slouched in his seat a bit and watched as she lifted her fingers to the harp strings and imagined those delicate hands of hers on his body, sliding over his chest and abdomen down to his cock. As she plucked out the notes of her first piece, he soaked her in with his gaze, something he’d done often when she’d been with him at Dunnottar. Seeing her this way—head inclined, gaze lowered, expression softened—brought back memories of afternoons stretched out on the settee in the music room, his ledgers resting untouched in his lap as he listened to her practice.

  The piece she performed now was one he’d heard her play before—Jan Ladislav Dussek’s The Lass of Richmond Hill. She executed it as effortlessly tonight as she had months before, her fingers flying over the strings and creating the sort of heavenly notes that could soothe any savage beast. He found himself moving his fingers with her, his mind plucking the notes out of the air as if he could see them; as if by moving his own hands, he could make music with her. A symptom of what his mother had called his ‘gift’—this ability to understand music, its muscles and ligaments stretched over the bones of structural notes. He’d never fully understood it, simply recognizing this as a part of himself, as much as his brown hair and peculiar eyes.

  He was loath to take his eyes off her, but could not help glancing around the room to observe the others who watched her. The whispers upon her entrance had faded, and their pious judgment seemed to have momentarily ceased, giving way to appreciation for her artistry. He found tears in the eyes of some women, those wh
o were moved by the music floating up from the fingertips of a fiery vision in silk.

  When the first piece ended, the room erupted into thunderous applause, the sound seeming to startle her out of a trance. She blinked and stared about the room as if shocked by it, the reaction that was her due after such a beautiful performance. He joined the others in clapping for her, noticing that she pointedly avoided his gaze while looking about the room, inclining her head graciously. Her lips moved, and though he could not hear her, he clearly read the ‘thank you’ that fell from her mouth.

  Then, the clamor died away, and she began another composition, then flowed seamlessly into another. No more applause came, as if the entire audience had collectively decided to hold its breath, to hold still and sit in the thrall of her expertise.

  Even Adam forgot himself for a moment and simply sank into the music, his fingers tapping out accompanying piano chords against his thigh for every note she played. His posture eased, every muscle in his body except for his insatiable cock going pliant, even the harsh frown that seemed to perpetually slash across the lower half of his face easing away.

  By the time she’d finished playing, he felt as if he’d been floating on the surface of a stream for hours, the water flowing from the tips of her fingers and washing over him. The sudden commotion of clapping made him resurface, other sounds eventually filling his ears as the final strains of her last composition dissipated into nothing.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he joined their applause politely, rising to join them in a standing ovation. Not just because the music had moved him … but so that he could keep his eyes on her, see her over the heads of the people on their feet in front of him. She slowly and gracefully rose from her seat and executed a flawless curtsy, a bland smile stretching her lips. Such a pretty little porcelain doll, putting on airs for the same people who would gossip shamelessly about her once she’d left the room. A well-trained little bird.