Chapter 14 #3
“It was designed to be a place for music,” the duke said at her shoulder. “The gallery was made to be used by an orchestra. Unfortunately we have not had a grand concert or ball here for more than a year.”
Fleur turned toward him. His face was caught by the shadows of the hall, his eyes blacker, his nose more aquiline, his scar more noticeable than in the light.
He was standing close to her, his hands clasped behind him.
And she felt breathless and very aware that a solid Corinthian column was at her back.
“You have consented to play for us this evening?” he said.
“Yes, your grace.”
“Tell me,” he said, “were you asked?”
“Her grace sent me a note,” she said.
He grimaced. “I promised this would not happen again, did I not?” he said. “I was from home this afternoon. Miss Hamilton, will you do us the honor of playing? You are quite at liberty to refuse. This is not part of your duties as governess.”
“I will be pleased to, your grace,” she said.
He treats his employees more like family than servants, Mr. Chamberlain had said of the duke the night before. Her grace had summoned. He had asked.
“You may wish to dance when you are not playing,” he said. “I am sure there will be several gentlemen who will be pleased if you do.”
“No,” she said. “Thank you, but no, your grace.”
“And yet,” he said, “you appeared to enjoy dancing during the ball a few evenings ago.”
“That was quite different,” she said.
“Allow me to escort you to the drawing room,” he said. He did not offer her his arm.
The drawing room looked somehow larger and more magnificent with the carpet rolled up and the white-and-gold chairs, upholstered in painted silk, moved back against the walls. The pianoforte too had been moved into one corner.
It was one of the most beautiful rooms in the house, Fleur thought, looking about her, unself-conscious because none of the guests were yet present.
The walls were a pale blue, the coved ceiling blue, white, and gold.
Great sheets of mirror made the room seem larger than it was and multiplied the effect of the crystal chandelier.
“The paintings are from Europe,” his grace said, seeing her interest, “though I have tried to gather works of our own artists in some of the other rooms. These are by Philipp Hackert and Angelica Kauffmann. Would you like to look through the music?”
She settled herself at the pianoforte and looked through the pile that someone must have been assigned to bring from the music room. All of it was music suitable for dancing. Many of the pieces were waltz tunes.
During the next two hours she grew increasingly more relaxed in the task she had taken on.
Except for Sir Philip Shaw, who came up to the pianoforte and kissed her hand on his arrival in the drawing room, everyone else took remarkably little notice of her, calling to her only when they wanted a particular tune or type of dance.
The waltz was an overwhelming favorite. Miss Dobbin appeared to have forgotten that she was to play for part of the evening, and Fleur willed her to continue to forget.
But the time inevitably came when she looked up between dances to find that Matthew was leading Miss Dobbin her way.
“Miss Hamilton,” she said, “how well you play. I am wishing now that I had played first so that I would not have to follow you.”
Fleur protested that she really did not have to play at all, but Miss Dobbin insisted that dancing was not her favorite activity and she had done enough of it during the ball and the last couple of hours to last her for the next month.
“Besides, Miss Hamilton,” Matthew said with a bow, “how am I to dance with you if you are to sit at the pianoforte all night?”
“I am not here to dance, my lord,” she said, “but to provide accompaniment.”
“Ah, but you will dance,” he said, smiling at her. “Please, ma’am? Because it is I who ask?”
What would he do if she refused? Fleur wondered. Turn to the company and denounce her in a loud voice? Expose her as a murderer and a jewel thief? She thought not. He would embarrass himself by such an exhibition, and that would not serve his purpose at all.
But of course it was an academic question. The truth was that she would not put it to the test, and Matthew must know her well enough to know that she would not.
“A waltz, if you please, Miss Dobbin?” he asked, holding out a hand for Fleur’s.
Matthew waltzed tolerably well. But of course she could not give herself up to an enjoyment of the dance.
She was a servant in this house, and her cheeks burned at the impropriety of her dancing with the company in the drawing room despite the permission his grace had granted her earlier.
She looked about nervously to see how the duchess was reacting at sight of her, but her grace was absent from the room.
And of course she could not forget the last time she had waltzed—on the deserted path south of the lake, her eyes firmly closed. His grace was dancing with Lady Underwood, she could see out of the corner of her eye.
The music drew to an end, but Fleur was given no chance to seat herself behind the pianoforte, as she had planned. Sir Philip Shaw was bowing over her hand.
“Ah, but Miss Hamilton is faint from her exertions at the pianoforte,” Matthew said with a smile. “I was about to take her into the hall, Shaw, for some air.”
“What a lucky devil you are, Brocklehurst,” Sir Philip said, looking Fleur up and down with lazy eyes. “I don’t suppose I can remind you of a prior acquaintance too, Miss Hamilton, can I?”
Fleur set her hand on Matthew’s arm and lifted her chin.
He took her into the hall and up to the high gallery beneath the dome. He must have found out the staircase during the daytime hours. She had never been up there before.
They seemed much higher up than the gallery had looked from below. And yet the dome still seemed to soar high above. But they were not there to sightsee.
He held her against the inner wall with his body and kissed her: her face, her throat, her breasts through the fabric of her dress. He fondled her breasts with his hands, pushed one knee between her legs. He opened his mouth over hers, prodded at her closed lips with his tongue.
She stood quiet and passive.
“You have never given me a chance, Isabella,” he said.
“You have disliked me just because my mother and my sister have always treated you rather shabbily, and perhaps because my father was too lazy to intervene. And because I did not notice you when you were a girl. But I was never openly unkind to you. Was I?”
“Not until recent years,” she said quietly.
“When have I been unkind?” he asked. “Oh, I suppose you will throw Booth in my teeth again. I was doing you a kindness if you only knew it, Isabella. He is not the man for you.”
“And you are?”
“Yes,” he said, “and I am. I love you, Isabella. I worship you. And I could teach you to love me if you would give me the chance, if you would not close your mind to me.”
“Perhaps I could have liked you,” she said, “and respected you too if you had shown me some respect, Matthew. But you have always been like this, grabbing me and protesting your love for me. In the past, of course, I was always free to fight you. Now I am no longer free. I cannot create a scene in this house by screaming, as I would like to do. I am a servant and you are a guest. And I cannot demand that you leave me alone. I have no particular wish to hang. But if you loved me, you would not play this cruel game with me. And you would not force on me attentions that you know to be unwelcome.”
“It is because you will not give me a chance,” he said.
But he looked behind him at that moment and covered her mouth loosely with his hand.
There was the sound of footsteps below, and both of them could see his grace crossing the hall slowly, looking about him.
It seemed that he was down there many minutes before he walked on to the long gallery and through the doors.
“Looking for you?” Lord Brocklehurst asked, turning back to Fleur and removing his hand.
“He is something of a watchdog for you, is he not, Isabella? Rather strange for a duke with a lowly governess, wouldn’t you say?
Do you grant him what you deny me? Have a care if you do.
If I find it to be true, you will hang by the neck until you are dead. You have my promise on it.”
“Words of love indeed,” she said.
He kissed her fiercely, cutting the inner flesh of her mouth against her teeth.
“Words of a jealous and frustrated lover,” he said. “I love you, Isabella.”
She would have gone to her room when he finally brought her down from the gallery. Her mouth felt swollen, her hair disheveled. She felt dirty. But he had a hand on her elbow. And she had agreed to play at a dance for the evening, however long the evening lasted.
She was relieved to find on her return to the drawing room that Mr. Walter Penny hailed her with some eagerness. He wished to dance with a reluctant Miss Dobbin.
Fleur seated herself at the pianoforte and resumed her playing. She wondered just how late it was. It felt as if dawn must surely be lighting the windows. But it was not.