Chapter Two

D amn it, now I am in the wrong . Cornelius was not quite sure how or why, but he grasped that he had both offended and hurt her. Hardly kind—or wise—when she had promised to keep his secret.

But seriously, he thought as he strode back to the table in search of Aubrey's abandoned flask of brandy, there could be no comparison between her life and his. He worked hard every day for his family's livelihood. His escape into poetry was a necessity, like a lifeline for his survival, even without the small amounts of money it made for him.

While she, whoever she was—how could he not even know her name?—led a life of idleness, having learned only how to attract a husband. The responsibility would never be hers. And what the devil did she know about the sweat and suffering of writing?

What do you know about her life? Her music? Oh, damnation . In his own way, he had done exactly the same to her as he'd imagined she had done to him in the bookshop. Only it had hurt her more because she had done nothing but listen to him and agree to his request without even understanding why he asked. From her kindness.

Cornelius had not been kind. He had, as she so rightly pointed out, been full of his own importance. What did he know of a young lady's life? Only what he observed of his sisters— who might not spend hours a day improving or even working on the land, but they certainly made the house comfortable and homely. They were also wrestling with the gardens in order to grow vegetables and herbs and fruit next year, as well as to make them look pretty. They did not know about his necessary release of poetry. He knew nothing of their private moments either.

Had he really become so self-obsessed and, even worse, self-pitying?

Appalled, he realized it was his pleasure to perform his part for his family, to use his training and knowledge for the benefit of all. And he had always written poetry, even before he left home to take up his first position. If music was That Girl's joy or escape, who was he to belittle it? He had just recalled excruciating evenings at Cecily's house, forced to listen and applaud her and other young ladies as they murdered pieces of pleasant music his brother Roderick had made shine as a boy.

Throwing himself into a chair at the empty Vale table, he reached for Aubrey's flask, unstopped it, and found it empty. He scowled at it and set it down, just as Aubrey, strolling past with an extraordinarily beautiful young lady on his arm, took another flask from his pocket and threw it to him.

Cornelius caught it just as casually. How many of the damned things had Aubrey brought with him? The boy drinks too much . His older brothers did not seem perturbed by the habit, labeling it as a slightly belated phase of growing up. No doubt Cornelius only worried more because, subjected to early mornings since his training began at the age of seventeen, he had missed that crucial part of a young gentleman's development.

Besides, as this evening had proven beyond a doubt, he really was not cut out for parties. He was socially awkward and had no small talk.

He took a sip from the flask, enjoying the jolt of heat on his tongue, and trickling down his throat. "Ode to a Brandy Flask," he thought, and amused himself by composing some funny lines in his head. He wished he was home alone in his small bedchamber, with paper, pen, and ink.

He was on to a second verse—knowing quite well that he was merely putting off the task of apologizing to That Girl—when someone eased into the chair next to his and a glass of brandy appeared in front of him.

Expecting a brother, Cornelius turned with a grin and a suitably disparaging word of thanks—only to see a complete stranger. The man was probably in his fifties and looked as if he had been squeezed into his straining evening coat. But his eyes were bright, friendly, and, fortunately, amused.

"I beg your pardon," Cornelius said. "I assumed you were my brother!"

"All brothers under the skin," the gentleman said cheerfully. "I brought you a glass of brandy so we can get to know each other. My name's Daubin. Cloverfield, my land, marches with Black Hill."

"Ah, of course. Cornelius Vale." They shook hands.

"You're the one who manages the land?" Daubin said, picking up his glass.

"I am."

"I believe you called in on my man, Norrie, with some concerns last week. Sorry I missed you. So when Lord Braithwaite told me who you were, I thought we could just sort the matter out as friends should."

"Indeed, I should much prefer it," Cornelius said. He did not want to quarrel with his neighbors, and Daubin, who may not have spoken like a gentleman, seemed to be behaving like one. In contrast with his rude and unhelpful steward. He raised his glass to Daubin.

"To friendship." Daubin beamed and clinked glasses before downing half his brandy. "So what exactly was your problem? What did my fool misunderstand?"

"Border incursions," Cornelius said with a quick smile. "There was a gap in the hedge, and three of our cattle wandered into your land. Mr. Norrie was reluctant to give them back."

"I'll speak to him," Daubin promised comfortably.

"Also, there is the matter of the top east meadow—where the stream flows down."

"I know the place."

"I'm afraid your sheep are all over it, and I plan to graze ours there over the winter."

Daubin blinked. "I'm no farmer, but seems to me there'll be none left for your sheep by winter."

"Seems so to me, too," Cornelius said. "So I would take it as a favor if Norrie would move your sheep onto your land."

"Bless you, lad, they are on my land."

"You've moved them since this morning? My thanks."

"Well, I'm not precisely sure what Norrie gets up to. But that meadow is mine."

"With respect, sir, that meadow has always been part of Black Hill."

"Until Sir George signed it over to me."

Cornelius set down his brandy. "The devil he did! When?"

"Oh, must be three or four years ago. Norrie will tell you."

"But my father was not even in England three or four years ago."

"Oh, people do business from abroad all the time," Daubin said indulgently. "You just have to keep your eye on things. Sir George let the place go a bit, didn't he?"

"Yes," Cornelius admitted, trying not to hiss the word between his teeth. "And trusted the wrong man to steward it for him. I'll speak to Barton again and get to the bottom of it."

Daubin patted his shoulder. "You do that, lad, and we shan't fall out over a bit of grass!" He beamed again. "And are these beautiful ladies, your sisters?"

*

Having extricated himself from Daubin, only to fall foul of Felicia and the shy young lady he felt obliged to dance with, it was some time before he again spotted That Girl. She was with another young lady who could only be a sister—a gentler, lighter version of her dramatic beauty.

Cornelius shocked himself with this thought. She had been so annoying that he had never acknowledged her beauty. But it was definitely there.

The sisters had been intercepted by a confident, fashionable young gentleman, whose smile was quickly wiped from his face by some sharp set-down from That Girl. The sister, who seemed to be smoothing the waters, nevertheless took her sibling's arm, and they walked away together.

Cornelius sighed and walked purposefully after them. At the last moment, just as they sat down beside another young lady, Cornelius was halted again, this time by none other than the Earl of Braithwaite, who said, "Ah, Vale," and thrust out his hand. "I just met your brother Sir Julius and two charming sisters. Good to see the Vales out in such force."

"That's not what people usually say."

Braithwaite laughed. "Nonsense. Have you met my wife?"

"No, I have not had that honor."

"Then let me rectify that. Eleanor." He turned toward the nearest table, and the woman beside That Girl glanced up, smiling. "This is Mr. Cornelius Vale, Sir Julius's brother. Vale, my wife, Lady Braithwaite."

Cornelius bowed, and the countess murmured, "How do you do, Mr. Vale?" before the earl moved on to That Girl. "My sister, Lady Alice Conway, and our youngest sister, Lady Helen."

Oh, the devil! thought Cornelius, with no idea why he should be so angry when That Girl turned out to be so aristocratic. There was nothing he could do except bow to both the young ladies and, as Lady Helen went off to dance with some army officer, take the proffered chair next to Lady Alice.

As soon as the countess became involved in conversation with an apparently old friend, Cornelius got the matter over with.

"I'm sorry to have been so ill-natured and presumptuous. I should not have disparaged your music, particularly not from my position of ignorance. I beg your pardon."

Although he half expected Lady Alice to stick her nose in the air and pretend she had not heard him, she cast him a quick, crooked smile. "Not at all, sir. You have actually given me a new and worthy ambition."

"I have? What?"

"To hold a conversation with you that does not require one of us to apologize to the other."

Cornelius grinned and was oddly gratified to see the relieved smile lighten her rather lovely dark hazel eyes. "With that in mind, tell me about your music. Do you play the pianoforte?"

"Yes, and the harp and the guitar and the violin a little."

"And you are good?"

He was curious to see if she would be modest or proud in her reply, but in fact she said nothing for so long that he thought he had offended her again.

"My sister—Helen, whom you just met—paints," she said, without obvious connection to his question. "Everyone tells her she is good. But then, she has had lessons from Lord Tamar, our brother-in-law, who is now a successful and fashionable artist. Many people attribute her skill to Tamar rather than to her own genius, her own relentless practice. Women—certainly women of our rank—must be accomplished but never great. Helen gives her beautiful paintings away to family and friends when they should be seen and admired by the whole world. Her talent is confined ."

"Because she is a lady," he said slowly. "And your talent, is that also confined?"

"Yes. As you imagine, I display my accomplishments beside that of other debutantes. I am better than them without trying, and yet if I do try, I am accused of showing off, of blighting the chances of lesser mortals who do not have the benefit of my rank, my dowry, my brother's influence. Unless I break with my family, I will never share my music in great concert halls, never even publish my compositions under my own name."

"Ah. No wonder you are angry with me. I could publish under my own name and choose not to."

"I am not angry with you," Lady Alice said ruefully. "I am angry with the world. You just represented it for a moment. It is I who should apologize. Again."

"I would like to hear you play," Cornelius said, almost surprised to find that it was true. She was a most unusual young lady. Even her anger intrigued him. He wondered if he were merely flattered because her awe of him had caused her incoherent and distinctly un flattering babble in the bookshop.

"Oh, you're bound to. I know you will be at our garden party, where I am permitted—nay, encouraged!—to play. We have also managed to secure Frederick Baird, the wonderful Scottish pianist. Do you care for music, Mr. Vale?"

"I rarely have the leisure to listen these days, but yes, I used to. When I was a boy, my father took us to several of the great concert halls of Europe—when war permitted. I heard Beethoven play in Vienna. He was… soaring." He gave a quick, embarrassed smile. "If you see what I mean."

Lady Alice's smile was much more open. "I do. And how I envy you. Did you really travel about Europe during the war?"

"Yes, up to a point. My father was a diplomat, and he took us all with him when we were young, wherever he was sent."

A hint of envy crossed her face, a spark of excitement. "Helen and I dream of traveling the world, soaking up art and music, learning, playing, and painting."

"We took it for granted as children, but yes, we were lucky in many ways. When is your garden party?"

"Next Wednesday."

"I have to wait so long to hear you? Wait." He frowned, recalling his quick search for Julius earlier in the evening. "Is there not a pianoforte in one of the smaller rooms here?"

Her eyes widened, and a whole array of expressions chased each other across her face, among them impatience, suspicion, longing, and then a breathtaking sparkle of mischief. Suddenly he could imagine her as a child, a precocious handful of daring and devilry and, probably, talent. A little like his sister Lucy, only more obviously forceful in character.

She rose from her chair, obliging him to stand with her. "Very well, let us stroll a little," she said as though in answer to his invitation. She made a silent gesture to her sister-in-law the countess, who nodded by way of acknowledgement.

When there was space, he offered his arm, and she took it quite decorously.

"Did I mention," Cornelius murmured, "that the room with the pianoforte was empty and in darkness?"

"Then what were you doing there?"

"Looking for Julius. We thought he'd legged it as soon as we arrived but discovered him later ensconced in the ballroom."

"Why would he—er… leg it?" Lady Alice asked in amusement.

"He didn't want to come in the first place. The twins, my youngest siblings, manipulated him. All of us, in fact."

"Then none of you truly wants to be here?"

"Oh, most of us do. Julius and I—and possibly Roderick—are the sticks-in-the-mud. Although I admit I am having more fun than I expected."

"Well retrieved, Mr. Vale," she said sardonically.

As they approached the ballroom doors, Cornelius slowed. "This is not wise for your reputation."

Lady Alice did not slow. "I am the Earl of Braithwaite's sister, outspoken and original. As I discovered during my ghastly Season, I can do almost anything with impunity."

"Including approaching strange men in bookshops?"

"Especially that."

"But not playing in concert halls."

"Especially not that."

"It makes you rebellious."

"Only up to a point, sir," she said with a hint of bitterness. "Our childish plans were fantasy. The reality is, we have family we care for and cannot hurt."

"And yet you are hurt by staying."

She cast him a quick look of surprise. "I did not expect you to understand."

He was not sure he did. Nor, as they crossed the empty foyer and she pushed open the door of the chamber with the pianoforte, was he sure he really wanted to hear her play. She was an earl's sister. For that alone, people must have over-praised her all her life, and he more than half suspected that her opinion far outstripped her talent. Somehow, it would pain him to know that, and to tell her. She would think it revenge for her rant about his poetry.

The room was darker now than before, since the summer night had finally fallen. But, using the taper by the door, he took a light from the nearest wall sconce in the foyer and lit the candelabrum in the room until the pianoforte stood in the midst of a halo-like glow.

She watched him from the open door, which she did not close before finally walking toward the instrument. So she retained some sense of self-preservation.

He drew out the stool and placed it for her while she stripped off her fine white gloves. Her hands were not small, but they were slender and curiously elegant as she swept them over the keys in a ripple of sound. Her brow twitched as though she heard a note not quite in tune, and then smoothed again as she settled her fingers over the keys and began to play.

He did not recognize the music, and she played very softly, but from the first bar, he was captured. He drew nearer her, hoping to banish the competing dance music drifting from the ballroom and determined not to lose a note of hers. The melody was haunting, intensified and complicated by fragments of others that all blended into a sweeping whole. Her fingers flew and glided, far beyond the skill of merely hitting the correct keys at the right time. Lady Alice felt the music. She breathed it, lived it. Her whole body moved with it, her face alive with expression that transformed it beyond mere beauty.

Dear God, and he had been trying to think how to advise her tactfully to concentrate on improving for family and friends. How utterly condescending and just plain wrong. It was as if every emotion he tried to portray in verse was expressed here in the music conjured so exquisitely by her fingers.

Cornelius was lost.

And then a man walked into the room.

"Lady Alice," he drawled, bowing, and the beautiful music cut off like a tap.

Her hands still resting on the keyboard, she stared at the newcomer, showing neither pleasure nor displeasure, neither welcome nor fear. Yet suddenly she looked as lost as Cornelius, bewildered, almost rootless, as though the music had been taken away from her.

Perhaps it was the effect of the music stopping so suddenly, but the newcomer seemed to be a powerful presence. Perhaps in his early thirties, only a few years older than Cornelius, he was tall, handsome, fair, and fashionable, holding himself with a natural pride and self-confidence.

"Braithwaite sent me to find you," said this vision in elegant black satin.

Lady Alice stood abruptly. "Nonsense. He said, She is here somewhere, and you took it upon yourself to look."

"Perhaps it is as well I did." His gaze moved unhurriedly around the room before landing expressionlessly on Cornelius and returning to Alice. "Not everyone is as understanding as I of your innocent liveliness."

"Not everyone presumes to judge," Alice snapped. "Courtesy compels me to present our neighbor, Mr. Cornelius Vale. Mr. Vale, His Grace the Duke of Atherstone."

His Grace did not offer his hand, returning only the slightest of bows to Cornelius's. Cornelius, who might have been merely his brother's steward but who had in his boyhood mingled with kings, princes, and ministers of state, was hardly overwhelmed by the ducal presence.

As he turned back to Lady Alice, she said, "Your arm, Mr. Vale, if you please."

Cornelius obliged, and they left the duke standing alone. However, any triumph Cornelius might have felt was lost in the realization that the fearless Lady Alice was shaking.