Chapter 13

Head still pounding, Percy received a hero’s welcome as he made his way to the Orangery for the Countess of Grayling’s latest entertainment. The countess had urged him to rest for the remainder of the day, but he had refused, too agitated to consider retreating to his chambers.

What will she think of me now? The question circled without pause in his mind, answerless.

He wished he could blame the injury to the side of his face for the tale he had told, but it was something he had wanted to tell her for a long time. An explanation for all the occasions in which he had made her angry or seen hurt pinch her face, when she was younger and especially when she was older. Taunting her was something he should have grown out of when she had grown up, but it had only made things worse, somehow.

I suppose I relied more and more on that twisted comfort…

“How will you explain that at the next ball?” Dickie breezed over and put an arm around Percy’s shoulders.

Percy gave a small shrug. “I gained it during a brawl, to defend a lady’s honor.”

“Perfection!” Dickie laughed. “You shall have a bride by the end of the month! Everyone, be gentle with this poor soul—he is likely still dazed from my sister’s atrocious aim.”

With a wry chuckle, Percy allowed himself to be led into the group of guests, but out of the corner of his eye, he searched for Anna. It took a moment, for she was seated while the majority were standing and mingling in the Orangery, waiting for the countess to instruct them to sit.

Anna was not alone.

She was perched on a chair at the front of the glass room, a short distance from the small dais where a string quartet were tuning their instruments. Next to her, Percy noted the golden hair and easy smile belonging to Simon. The pair were talking quietly but intently—so intently that Anna had clearly not noticed that Percy had come into the room.

They make a handsome couple. He could not deny that, as he could not deny how lovely it was to see Anna laugh and smile like that. So, why did the sight make him bristle? Why did it make his chest feel so strange and tight?

* * *

“They are exceptional, are they not?” Simon whispered, as sweet music tingled through the Orangery while sunset glowed, bronze and beautiful, through the glass. Almost as if the musicians were controlling the sun, singing it to sleep.

Anna nodded, the shivering notes of the violins and cello conjuring a visceral reaction in the very fiber of her being, coaxing tears from her eyes that she could not wipe away fast enough. “Exquisite,” was all she could say, her voice thick.

“I can play the violin, but not nearly as well. Perhaps, I might show you one day soon,” he said.

She turned to him. “I should like that very much, though I hope you will forgive my tears when you do. If I cry, it is not because you are a poor violinist. It… moves me.”

He drew out his handkerchief and passed it to her. “I would not be offended if I were honored with your tears, Lady Anna. It would be a… privilege to move you.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking the handkerchief to dab away her own tears.

He was proving to be a very interesting gentleman, more interesting than she had expected. Throughout the musical entertainment, she had discovered that he was well-travelled and well-read. Indeed, she had been positively giddy when he had asked her if she liked Le Morte d’Arthur. They had almost missed an entire piece of the recital because of that particular discussion and might have continued if they had not been hushed by Max, who was sitting on the other side of her.

A short while later, the string quartet faded to a chillingly beautiful conclusion, the final notes lingering in the air like the crackle of Earth’s power before a storm. And as the guests began a round of applause, Beatrice stood to announce that the musicians would be taking a brief pause before they began again.

“There are refreshments to the rear of the room,” she added. “Please, help yourselves and make merry.”

Simon gestured toward the tables of drinks and delicacies. “Would you like anything?”

“A lemonade, perhaps,” she replied shyly, unaccustomed to such attentive company.

He smiled and rose to his feet. “Of course, Lady Anna.”

She turned to watch him walk toward the refreshments, but her gaze wandered within seconds, drawn to a couple who were standing off to the side. A pairing she had not expected to see for a second time: Percival was deep in conversation with Caroline.

Is he… smiling at her? Anna had to rub her eyes to be sure.

There could be no mistaking it; he was smiling at Caroline, and it was a true smile, too. No awkwardness or stiffness about it. He looked positively comfortable, and Anna could not take her eyes off the peculiar scene.

Even when Simon returned with her drink and tried to engage her in further conversation about the string quartet, she missed patches of what he said and had to ask him to repeat himself, for her attention kept drifting back to the whispering couple on the other side of the room. And each time she saw another smile from Percival, another laugh, another warm expression, it made her squirm in her seat and sent waves of uncomfortable heat through her veins.

“Are you well?” Simon asked, appearing more concerned than annoyed by her distracted demeanor.

Anna blinked. “Well? Yes, I think so.” She paused. “I wonder if it is rather too hot in here.”

“It is somewhat stifling. The glass, I assume.” Simon gestured upward. “We are, essentially, plants in a greenhouse.”

She fanned herself. “That must be it. I feel I… cannot breathe properly.”

She could not, for the life of her, understand the reaction. When she put her hand to her brow to check for a fever, she could not feel anything unusual, but she was not bold enough to ask Simon to check for her.

It must be the sun and the exertions of the day, she told herself. A sickness setting in.

“Would you care to take in some fresh air?” Simon put out his hand.

She was about to accept, when Beatrice moved to the front of the room and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen. Please, take your seats and the musicians will soon begin again.”

As Simon’s hand dropped and Anna assured herself that she could endure for a while longer, someone else sat down in the chair to her right. Expecting it to be Dickie, she turned to tell him that she might have to slip away if the heat became too much.

She barely got to, “If I leave midway—” when she realized it was not Dickie. It was Percival.

“If you leave midway—what?” he prompted.

“That is my brother’s chair.”

Percival nodded. “I know. I asked him to exchange seats.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” Her throat itched, as if it might be closing.

“Because I was sitting next to Lady Caroline, and Lady Caroline seemed more interested in your brother’s company,” he replied. “She may or may not have alluded to wanting to sit beside him, during the recess, so I did the decent thing and helped them along.”

Anna fanned herself more furiously, her skin so hot she wondered how no one nearby could sense it. “You… helped Lady Caroline?”

“What did you think I was doing?” He kept his gaze fixed forward, and for an impulsive second, Anna wanted to turn his face toward her, to have him look her in the eyes.

“Conversing. Testing the waters,” she replied weakly.

“For what purpose?” Percival shook his head, still refusing to meet her gaze. “I doubt I need to remind you, of all people, that Lady Caroline is in search of a love match. There is no reason for me to waste my time or hers.”

Frustration tightened every muscle, from Anna’s calves to the nape of her neck, making the simple act of sitting feel like a feat of endurance. “Well… you should be sitting beside another lady, then. Lady Joan would likely be glad of the company. Any eligible lady. Pick one and sit by her.”

“I might be mistaken,” he replied drily, “but it sounds as if you do not want me here, at your side.”

She huffed out a breath, lowering her voice to an even quieter whisper. “You spoke of wasting time. That is what sitting beside me is to you, when this room is brimming with fine ladies who might make very pleasant brides.”

“I am enjoying a respite, like the musicians.”

“They have time for a respite,” she replied. “You ought to be using the sympathy I gained for you by nearly knocking you out to your advantage. That bruise will not last forever.”

He smirked. “It feels like it will.” He peered around her. “Or is it that I am interrupting your endeavors that you do not like?”

Simon was busy conversing with the gentleman on the other side of him, apparently unperturbed by what Anna was doing. It was a sure sign of a man with maturity, that he did not feel the need to rise to her defense, but she rather wished he would show some jealousy at that moment and intervene.

Or, perhaps, he was not as interested in her as she had thought.

She fidgeted with the hem of her kid gloves, plucking at a thread that had come loose. “I cannot make you move, I cannot make you do anything, but I would suggest that you find alternative company. For your sake. This gathering is a prime opportunity, and you are frittering it away.”

“I am content where I am.”

“You are impossible,” she muttered, picking more intently at the loose thread.

He raised an eyebrow. “Because I am sitting in a chair? Because I chose to follow your lead and help Lady Caroline in her pursuits?”

“You know why.” She glared at him. “You ask me for assistance, then you ignore my advice. How am I supposed to achieve the task you set me if you will not let me? I shall say it again—you are impossible. And I am starting to think you do not even want a wife; you merely asked for my help to irritate me.”

“Or, perhaps, I do not want a wife from the array of ladies here,” he pointed out.

She pulled apart a stitch. “I should have swung harder. Then, I might have knocked some sense into you.”

“Alas, I doubt you will be allowed within ten paces of a croquet mallet ever again, so we shall never know.”

She did not know whether to laugh or throttle him, as the string quartet began to play again: a romantic ballad that floated through the Orangery like magic. Soft and slow and sad, the violins and the cello tugged upon intangible threads within her. Her breath caught, and as tears threatened once more, welling with the music, she tugged desperately at the loose strand. A vain attempt to keep the tears from falling, to concentrate on something other than that heart-rending ballad.

Fingers closed around her hand, holding her own fingers still. “You will ruin your glove,” Percival whispered, his voice breathless.

She peered up into his striking green eyes and saw a watery gleam there, too, reflecting her own. But how could someone who did not trust emotions, who thought emotions were weak, be provoked to almost tears by the beautiful music?

“It is mine to ruin,” she whispered back, a blade of panic twisting between her ribs. What if someone saw? What if Simon saw?

One brief glance told her that no one had noticed, for the entire group of guests was entranced by that lilting, heavenly music. Some other ladies were dabbing away tears, and even some gentlemen looked like they were trying to hold back their feelings. Still, she could not shake the fear that rocked her.

She tried to free her hand, but Percival held on tighter and leaned in closer, until she could not breathe at all. He smelled of woodsmoke and bergamot, spicy and intense. His eyes danced with the last rays of sunset that shone in through the glass and flickered with the candlelight that had been ignited during the recess. And his hand was warm, even through her glove.

His breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “Why are you so nervous, Catchweed?”

He spoke her mocking nickname so softly, so tenderly that it did not register for a few seconds more, the sound of it unable to kindle the usual bristle of anger or annoyance.

“Why am I nervous?” she replied, finding her voice and a morsel of irritation. “I am nervous because you are holding my hand in front of at least thirty people, and you will not give it back to me. I am nervous because you are threatening the only thing that brings me joy, these days.”

He glanced down at his hand on hers, as if he had not realized he was still holding onto her. “A threat? Whatever do you mean?”

“I cannot be discovered, and I cannot be part of a scandal. It would destroy everything I have built, everything I find happiness within,” she whispered, so quietly that he had to lean in further. “I have been a laughingstock long enough, Percival. Do not make me one again.”

He dropped her hand immediately and sat back at a more polite distance. “I am still dazed, I fear.”

“Well, when this piece ends,” Anna said, her heart thundering in her chest, her skin still tingling where his breath and voice had caressed it, “please ensure you move elsewhere. You were right—I do not want you beside me.”

He gave a small shake of his head. “I meant no harm.”

“No.” She swallowed thickly. “You never do.”

But she had worked too hard to let one tragic story, one display of vulnerability, one heat-addled heart, unravel everything. And, right now, Percival was a threat to not only her calling as The Matchmaker, but he was a threat to her last chance at a love story, too.

“Beautiful, is it not?” she said, leaning into Simon.

He turned to look at her, beaming as if their conversation had never paused. “Yes, Lady Anna, you are.” He chuckled. “The music is quite something, too.”

By the time the next piece of music began, Percival had abandoned his seat beside her to stand alone at the back of the room.