Chapter Four
Lovable?
Trentham set aside the question while he addressed his guests, fifty-odd aristocrats in eight rows, facing the piano.
A bit cramped. He should have invited fewer, but his position was tenuous enough that he didn’t dare offend anyone by excluding them.
It was to his favor that everyone he’d invited had come.
Of course, he’d chosen his list carefully to avoid being snubbed.
“Welcome to my musicale.” He adopted the requisite ducal tone.
The one that was decidedly unlovable. “As you know, we will be treated tonight by performances from three superb musicians: Mr. Elgin Benedict, Mrs. Patrick Galloway, and Mr. Elias Cameron; respectively violin, voice, and piano. Mr. Benedict has graciously agreed to accompany Mrs. Galloway as well.” Trentham gestured to a bearded man in the front row whose tailoring had him concerned; surely, the fashion for ridiculously tight sleeves should not be adopted by violinists. He had elbows to bend! “Mr. Benedict?”
The man rose and stepped into the alcove, encouraged by polite applause.
Trentham retired to the chair that Lady Felicity Townes, his sister, held for him, at the end of the third row from the front.
Just behind Lynch and the Delancey sisters.
He pulled his seat out to the side, so that he would not block the view of too many of his guests.
At other people’s homes, he sat as close as he could to the back, but he could not do that tonight.
Nor did he wish to. From this vantage point, he could stare at the nape of Miss Delancey’s neck, and no one would be the wiser.
Among the air’s soup of perfume, he distinguished the scent of lavender. Dessie’s? Or Miss Delancey’s? Or both?
Elgin began. Though not a professional violinist, he was even better than Trentham remembered. Even so, Trentham could not concentrate on the music.
Lovable?
On the one hand, the word described a jolly but daft old uncle, one whose stories were amusing but overly long. He didn’t think he was that. Yet. The more literal definition implied someone easy to love, deserving of love. And she could not think he was that. They had only just met.
Of course, it was a jest. Banter. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. He could say that the nape of her neck was delectable. It didn’t mean he would munch on it.
A terrible example.
But lovable? And, for God’s sake, Dessie, rakehell? That was a low blow.
Ah, but what plagued him were the possibilities—if he were, in fact, a lovable rakehell. Possibilities of the very worst kind. So desirable, yet, at best, unattainable. At worst, attained.
The problem was…well, Lynch for one. If Trentham started anything with Dessie’s sister, he’d end up eating Lynch’s fist. Unless he sought a leg-shackle.
Which, ironically, he did—redemption and propagation: that was the whole point of his reputation rehabilitation.
Unfortunately, redeeming himself had been even more difficult than he’d imagined it would be.
He’d been back in London, back from his “exile,” for nearly four years and was still, in many ways, persona non grata.
Sadly, his enemies had long memories. And he was running out of time.
So, marriage, yes, but not to an American. That would not restore his status one whit. And he certainly could never justify wedding an…an original like Miss Delancey. Recall: he’d met her alone, at night, trying to leap out his window!
He coughed to hide his inappropriate-to-the-setting snort, and started tapping his thumbs against his thighs, keeping time, to feign complete attention on Elgin’s violin.
Marriage was strategic. He needed someone predictable to balance his own rash impulses.
He’d even gone so far as to pick out two, possibly three, young misses from impeccable families with unassailable reputations.
Marriage to any of them would return him to the good graces of those in the peerage whose good graces he had forfeited.
Good graces that meant something. That was his plan.
Nevertheless, he fixed his eyes on the spot where a bump of spine met Miss Delancey’s nape and indulged the thought of what her skin might taste like, just there.
Applause rang out, and Felicity gave his leg a nudge.
He stood quickly and stepped to the front, skirting past the sadly-to-be-neglected-tonight harp, to thank Elgin and re-introduce Mrs. Galloway.
A widow, as he understood it. Elgin’s mistress, naturally.
Of course, he didn’t say that. He hoped she sang as well as Elgin had promised she would. He didn’t say that either.
After the introduction, he sat back down. Music resumed. A tear-jerking Irish ballad. He should have known. Nevertheless, it would keep the assembly entertained until Eli made his grand entrance. And Eli would not disappoint, though he would be disappointed. As Trentham was.
Because Miss Delancey would not play.
*
Despite the privilege of having known Eli for over a decade, and having listened to his piano playing for hundreds, perhaps thousands of hours, Trentham was as entranced by the music stirring the air as anyone else in the room.
Probably more so, because even if his own skill at the instrument was mediocre, he was blessed, or cursed, by an unerring ear.
He knew Eli’s trouble spots, because he’d heard them practiced over and over.
Yet when Elias Cameron performed for an audience, his fingers possessed an inhuman magic.
For nearly an hour, he gifted Trentham’s guests with perfectly performed, universally recognized favorites: Beethoven, Bach, Chopin…
But now this, this was Liszt’s La Campanella. Trentham doubted his audience was capable of truly appreciating what they were hearing.
Except for Miss Delancey. He watched her sway to the music, ever so slightly, as if she were possessed, body and soul. When he caught fleeting glimpses of her profile, her eyes were closed and her cheeks wet with tears.
Music was seductive. Too often, ladies confused their response to the music with their response to the musician. Would Miss Delancey? The probability brought a sour taste to the back of his tongue.
*
Trentham had to stand near the front door for the leave-takings.
That was the worst part of hosting. Rather than all the thank-you-goodbyes, how much more pleasant if guests simply collected their wraps and skulked out.
Lynch had been none too pleased to be asked to herd Dessie and Ophelia into the billiards room and wait there until Eli showed himself.
He complained that Dessie was tired—the flimsiest excuse to which the man had ever resorted.
More likely he was afraid Dessie would trounce him at billiards, again.
Felicity was last to leave. If she noticed three fewer guests departing than had arrived, she said nothing.
She looked tired. Droopy. Poor Felicity.
He knew she was unhappy. Her marriage to Sir George Townes was now an “in name only” affair, though perhaps she preferred that.
She had been married too young, to a man who was too old.
She gave him three children. Wonderful children.
Trentham’s niece and nephews. Surely, he mused, they found him lovable.
The boys were at Oxford now. Felicity and Julia lived in the country.
Sir George had his London home but spent most of his time at his club or his mistress’s apartments.
He gave Trentham a wide berth. Felicity had told Trentham to leave it alone.
Even Felicity feared…he didn’t know what she feared. His temper? His sharp tongue? His marksmanship?
He walked her outside and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“Thank you, Felicity. I hope this wasn’t too awful.”
“Of course not. But you do know I can’t keep doing this forever.”
Doing this. Serving as his hostess.
“But you do it so splendidly.” He smiled. Then he asked, eyeing the waiting carriage, “Are you sure you won’t stay over? It’s late.” It had to be terrible going home to that house, whether or not Sir George would be there.
She shook her head. “I told George I’d be home by one o’clock. It’s nearly that now.”
“We should have started the program earlier.”
“You should have cut Mrs. Galloway off after her fourth ballad.”
Trentham chuckled. “If only.” He signaled to the driver and the carriage rolled forward. “Are you all right, Felicity? You look worn out.”
“What an awful thing to say.”
“I know. I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t worried.”
“London exhausts me. I’m going back to the country in a sennight.
” She reached to brush her hand against his hair.
He squinted. Out here in the moonlight, he could see that there were traces of powder on her cheeks.
Her earlier, artful application had faded to a few streaks that revealed more than they hid.
She murmured, “Julia misses you. Come visit us in Dainswick.”
“I will.” He handed her up into the carriage. “Felicity, please tell me if you need anything. I can be relied upon, you know.”
She laughed. “Of course, I know. Stop worrying.”
He shut the door and stood back.
He hoped he was mistaken. He must be mistaken. But those were not simply shadows beneath Felicity’s eyes. Her face was bruised.
*
Trentham strode into the billiards hall angry, wishing the musicale had ended an hour ago, leaving him more time to question his sister before she raced home.
It didn’t help to find Lynch seated in an armchair, glowering, beside a settee where Dessie had fallen asleep.
Moreover, Miss Delancey, pacing by the billiards table, had turned eagerly to face the door, only to wilt with disappointment when she saw him.
“Where the hell is Eli?” Lynch growled.
“You know him. He’s up there preening and congratulating himself in the mirror.” He all but snarled the words. “He’ll be down when he feels he’s given the anticipation time to build.”
Lynch frowned at the venom in his reply. Ophelia looked jaw-dropped appalled. He supposed he should say something contrite, but if he did, it would not be sincere.
“What’s wrong with Dessie? Bosky on champagne?”
“What is wrong with you?” Lynch rose.
“For Heaven’s sake!” Miss Delancey said, stage whispering. “Shush! You’ll wake her.”
The concern in her voice penetrated the muddle of his own worry for Felicity. He murmured, “Is she all right?”
Miss Delancey shrugged, helpless. “She’s never fallen asleep at a party before.”
“She’s fine,” Lynch said through clenched teeth, slumping back into his chair. “Or she would be if you’d let me take her home.”
Miss Delancey stared at her brother-in-law a moment, mouth open. Then she nodded and simply said, “Oh.”
A knock interrupted before Trentham deciphered their code. Eli stepped inside. He’d changed his clothes. His hair was damp as if he’d taken the time to bathe while they waited. He smiled from ear to ear, clearly expecting accolades, not dead silence. His smile disappeared.
“The concert was splendid, Eli,” Trentham assured him. “But I’ve overtaxed my guests. Abbreviate, please. What did you want to say?”
“But it was only Miss Delancey I asked to speak to.”
“Right,” Lynch said, standing. He shot Trentham a scowl before scooping up his wife. “We’re leaving. Ophelia, out.”
It was entertaining, actually. Trentham was now imagining poor Lynch with daughters.
Dessie stirred in her husband’s arms. “What? What on earth? Where—oh, for pity’s sake. Put me down before you drop me.”
“I’m not going to drop you.”
“Where is Ophelia?” She twisted in Lynch’s arms. “Ophelia!”
“I’m right here,” Miss Delancey said, trying to step around to where Dessie could see her.
“I only wished to ask Miss Delancey if she would come back tomorrow for tea!” Eli spoke in a quick, high-pitched whine. “Afterward, perhaps we could work some more on Robin’s piece.”
All caterwauling ceased. Trentham winced. Bad to worse.
Lynch set Dessie on her feet, and they all turned to stare at their host. Except Eli, whose confused gaze danced from one to the other. Then Eli’s expression grew sheepish and he murmured, “I thought they knew.”
Trentham pressed two fingertips to the bridge of his nose. They did now. Enough undesirable epithets had been attached to his name; he’d hoped to avoid eccentric. He spoke to the floor.
“Lynch? If I send my carriage around tomorrow afternoon, would you be so good as to permit Miss Delancey, if she cares to come, and Lady Lynchford, unless she is under the weather, in which case, a maid will suffice, to take tea with Mr. Cameron? And then, they may practice for an hour or two. You see”—he drew a breath—“he has been indulging me by working on a little something I composed.”