Chapter Eighteen #2
Fiona smiled back nervously and glanced at the first page of sheet music, though she knew it well.
The movement started heavily with resounding chords.
Allegro di molto con brio, she told herself as she started to play.
Serious, with quick energy. After the two octave fireworks of the introduction, Fiona relaxed into the lyrical grace notes of the development, holding the tremolo with her left hand as the music built in tempo.
Her fingers flew over the keys. She crossed hands rapidly, then came back to the left hand in the Alberti bass configuration for the recapitulation.
The hall was perfectly still as she paused momentarily for the Adagio Cantabile. She looked up involuntarily at Richard.
He returned a look of approval and silently mouthed bravo.
It was wonderful to have him there, turning pages just at the right moment.
She began the wafting melody of the second movement and heard a collective sigh from the audience.
Fiona loved the adagio and summoned all the emotion she could to play it, finishing with triplet rhythm and a brief coda.
Full of confidence now, she launched into the Allegro of the final third movement, playing the rondo with skillful sforzando and introducing new character into the melody of the first movement.
Adding a snippet of the second movement, she elaborated and came back to the original melody, finishing with an impressive glissando into the final chords.
As they echoed in the room, her hands rested on the piano.
They had not failed her, nor had her memory.
She flinched a bit at the sudden flood of clapping. Richard held out his arm. She took it and he led her to the edge of the performance stage, where she managed a rather unsteady curtsy.
“Do not play the Mozart, you are exhausted,” he murmured. “If your hostess asks for more, one of the Schubert lieder you know by heart will suffice.”
Mrs. Drummond-Burrell approached them, clapping with the audience, who showed no signs of flagging in their appreciation.
“My dear child, that was a spectacular performance. I am beside myself with admiration. Would you favor us with an encore?”
Curtsying to her hostess, she walked back to the piano. Richard moved away to rejoin the spectators, but she whispered his name. He turned, shielding her from the audience.
“Please…will you stay?”
Something flared in his eyes, but he just nodded and escorted her back to the piano.
Fiona fingered the first notes of an early song by Schubert.
It was her mother’s favorite, and she knew it intimately.
While playing, she recalled the temperate Caribbean breezes blowing through the open windows of their plantation house as she practiced, her mother working on embroidery or dozing in the balmy air.
Once she became sick, mháthair’s bed moved downstairs next to the piano, where she could hear Fiona play.
At the end, music was the only thing that could soothe her.
Richard’s advice served her well. Perhaps the pressure to perform in front of the cream of London society had taken its toll, but with the stress and relentless practice of the last few days, she would not have made it through the difficult Mozart sonata.
The final notes of the piece were adagissimo; she colored them with great tenderness and as the last one hung in the air, her eyes were damp.
There was complete silence for a moment, then applause erupted throughout the room.
She rose, curtsying again to the crowd, and Richard escorted her back to his family.
“Oh, my dear.” Lady Amelia dried her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “That was just lovely. I am so proud of you.”
Immediately, people surrounded them, offering congratulations and compliments. Valentina managed to hug Fiona before Mrs. Drummond-Burrell whisked her away to meet an endless parade of faces, most of whom scarcely registered.
In the middle of it all, she looked around for Richard, but her hostess pulled her into another introduction before she could escape to thank him.
He found her first, as Mrs. Drummond-Burrell cornered her yet again to meet an admirer.
Her pulse raced at the sight of his tall figure, elegant as ever, from the superb fit of his charcoal coat and buff breeches to the pale blue-and-gray striped waistcoat and intricately tied cravat.
She couldn’t forget a single detail of their passionate encounter in his library, no matter how hard she tried.
“I hope you will allow me to take Miss Rafferty for some refreshment, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. I don’t believe she has partaken of any since her arrival.”
“Yes, of course. I’ve set out some wine punch and biscuits in the conservatory.
It’s a lovely place to sit among my prized camellias and relax, and I haven’t opened it to the crowd yet.
Everyone is positively agog with excitement, Miss Rafferty, and to think I unveiled your talent at my modest soirée!
Go and refresh yourself, my dear. I shall be along shortly. ”
*
As he escorted her to the conservatory, Richard debated the best way to handle the escapade with Sir William Denton. Upon receiving Cedric’s note, he was moved to such cold rage that he almost traveled back to London on the spot.
First, Fiona rejected his offer of marriage out of hand, and she behaved so outrageously with a man she knew he did not approve of, deliberately flaunting his authority. The worst part of all was that he minded the scandal less than her fixation on Sir William.
From the minute he glimpsed her tonight, exquisite in the pale-aqua gown, he had been in a state of angry arousal.
He wanted to kiss her until she forgot William Denton completely; he fantasized about pulling her into a dark corner and undoing the damned velvet ribbons that barely held together her bodice.
What was she thinking wearing a gown like that?
If he couldn’t stop imagining her breasts, then neither could any other man in the building.
He could bury his face in the hollow between them and drown in the pleasure of it.
Good God, was he mad? Even in the heyday of his affair with the flawless Eleanor Davenport, his lust had not been so relentless.