Chapter 4
“Lady Lushington, perhaps you would entertain us all with a rendition of Mozart’s Sonata in A Major. And Mr Morley, would you be so kind as to turn the pages?”
Shocked, Arabella looked up so quickly she cricked her neck. This was a piece of music she had steadfastly refused to play for the past five years—much less listen to—on account of its ability to nearly undo her. For that was the piece over which she and Nicholas had first become acquainted.
Five years ago at one of Lady Liverpool’s musical soirees, Arabella, an accomplished musician, had been requested to play the piece while Nicholas, as the closest gentleman, had been asked to turn the pages of her music.
Their eyes had locked, and after that there was nothing more to be said. Two hearts had been joined as one.
It was still the case, except Arabella could never explain, publicly, why those two hearts had been torn asunder. At least not without jeopardising her brother’s freedom.
And now Lady Quamby had asked Nicholas—of all people—to turn the pages.
Well, Arabella did not know how she was going to survive the proximity without breaking down in tears.
It was hard enough to bear Nicholas’s studied efforts at ignoring her. But to have him so close and feel the recrimination that would surely emanate from him in waves was going to be more than she could bear.
And yet what choice did she have?
With a forced smile, Arabella rose, and without looking at Nicholas, took her seat at the beautiful pianoforte. The ivory keys felt cold, her fingers trembled, and she carefully arranged her skirts, buying herself precious moments to try to compose herself before the inevitable torture began.
“Bravo!” enthused Colonel Shankshaft as she tentatively played the first chord, and although Arabella was wary of the man, she nevertheless wished he was the one who would be standing not five inches away.
For yes, here was Nicholas, in position—standing straight and unmoving and, as she had feared, with only cold recrimination in the brief look he sent her.
Not only that, his familiar scent of sandalwood and something uniquely him added another layer of difficulty. How potent was the sound of familiar music for bringing back the past? But to have that accompanied by the familiar scent of the man she loved was surely more than she could bear.
Swallowing, she played a second chord to try to ease her tension, but her fingers trembled so violently it was not at all tuneful. Heat flooded her cheeks as she heard Lady Quamby’s sympathetic murmur about the cold naturally affecting her dexterity.
“Perhaps we should choose something simpler—” Fanny began, but Arabella shook her head firmly.
“No, this will be perfectly fine. I simply need a moment to...warm my hands.”
She flexed her fingers, acutely aware of Nicholas standing so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. When she began again, the music flowed more smoothly, though each note seemed to pierce her heart with memories of happier times.
The first page turn came all too soon. Nicholas leaned forward, his sleeve brushing against her shoulder as he reached for the corner of the sheet music.
The touch was so brief, so innocent, yet it sent a jolt through her entire being.
She missed a note, then another, her breathing becoming shallow as she fought to maintain her composure.
“Courage,” he murmured, so quietly that only she could hear. But there was no warmth in his voice, only a gentleman’s obligation to assist a lady in distress.
The irony was not lost on her. Once, his whispered encouragements had filled her with confidence and joy. Now, his coldness threatened to shatter what little control she had left.
As the piece progressed, each page turn became an exquisite torture.
Sometimes their hands would nearly touch as she reached for a difficult passage.
Once, when he leaned closer to better see the music in the candlelight, his breath stirred the tendrils of hair at her temple, and she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.
The final crescendo approached, the notes demanding passion and fire that she no longer felt entitled to express.
Her playing became mechanical, lifeless, and she felt herself a pale shadow of the woman who’d once performed this very piece with such joy that Nicholas had—he’d told her—fallen in love with her on the spot.
When the last note faded into silence, the polite applause felt like mockery. Arabella’s hands remained frozen above the keys, her chest rising and falling with the effort of containing her emotions.
“Magnificent!” declared Lady Quamby, clapping enthusiastically. “Was that not perfectly romantic, Mr. Morley? Music is the food of love! Did you not love it, too?”
Nicholas stepped back from the piano and, after a dutiful bow at Arabella, responded to his hostess’s remarks with, “Mozart’s Sonata in A Major has always had the power to move me, ma’am.”
Arabella rose unsteadily from the bench, her legs barely able to support her as she politely inclined her head, unable to escape, for Lady Quamby said, brightly, “Perhaps tomorrow, if the weather clears, we might enjoy a lovely walk in the gardens. There’s a charming little pavilion that’s wonderfully romantic in the snow. ”
If the weather cleared . The words echoed in Arabella’s mind with desperate hope.
If the weather cleared, then nothing would stop her from continuing her journey to Lushington Hall.
She could retrieve those damning documents, protect James from the consequences of her crimes, and remove herself from Nicholas’s life once and for all.
She would speak with Sarah tonight to make plans for a swift departure at the first sign of improvement in the weather conditions.With only a few hours by carriage, Arabella could slip away, leaving Sarah to concoct an excuse or pretend her mistress was indisposed.
“Lady Lushington? Are you quite well?” Lady Quamby’s voice seemed to come from very far away.
“Perfectly well,” Arabella managed, though her voice sounded strange to her own ears. “Please excuse me, for I will retire early tonight. The travel has been rather... taxing.”
Moving towards the door, she saw that Nicholas was now standing by the piano, his hands clenched at his sides, staring at the music she had just abandoned.
Oh, if only life had been kinder and given her her heart’s desire.
If only she could tell him the truth, make him understand that every day since their broken engagement had been an agony of regret and longing.
If only she could explain that she had never stopped loving him, would never stop loving him, even if regaining what she had lost was beyond all possibility now.
But it was clear he would never forgive her. The coldness in his eyes, the carefully controlled distance he maintained indicated that he was clearly a man who felt deeply betrayed.
A man who would never trust again.
Tomorrow, if God was merciful, the snow would stop falling. And Arabella could finally escape this beautiful, terrible prison where her heart was slowly breaking all over again.