“French?” Genevieve glanced at the girl, who made a face. “Or perhaps addition?”
Frances made a groaning sound.
“How about music?” Genevieve suggested, not feeling up to French or mathematics herself. “I believe you told me you play a little piano.”
“My grandmama had a pianoforte, and she showed me how to play a little.” Frances seemed eager as she warmed to the idea.
“Mrs. Mann told me there is a music room in the back of the ground floor. I shall ask her for the key, and we shall hope to find a pianoforte.”
An hour later, Genevieve pulled open the heavy drapes of the music room and nodded as she looked about. Not only did the room boast a pianoforte, it also held a harp under a large white Holland sheet. Mrs. Mann assured them that both instruments were tuned regularly and the room cleaned weekly. Indeed, Genevieve didn’t find a speck of dust. She opened the pianoforte and gestured for Frances to sit on the bench. “I would love to hear your song.”
Frances looked at the keys. “Where is middle C? I forgot.”
Genevieve showed her, and the girl pounded out a few notes of a tune Genevieve herself had taught to many students. “That’s lovely,” she said. “Shall I teach you the next section?”
“Yes.”
They had been practicing about a quarter hour when the hair on the back of Genevieve’s neck tingled. She tried to ignore it but finally gave in and turned. She jumped when she spotted Lord Emory standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Frances turned as well. “Did you hear me playing, Papa?”
“I did. I remember learning that piece as well.”
“You can play the pianoforte?”
“A little, but I haven’t played for years.”
Frances jumped up. “Play for me.”
“I really haven’t played for years, Frances.”
“Please. Please, please, please.”
Genevieve stood and motioned to the bench. Lord Emory looked as though he wished he’d stayed away. Then he smiled. “I only remember the right hand. I will play if Miss Brooking accompanies me.”
Frances looked at her governess, hope in her eyes. Genevieve sighed. How was she to say no to both of them? “Very well.” She took a seat on the left side of the bench, and Lord Emory sat beside her. Immediately, Genevieve wished she had thought of some excuse to bow out. Why hadn’t she encouraged Francesto practice with her father? Lord Emory’s broad shoulders made the bench feel far too small. Her body was pressed against his, no matter how close to the edge of the bench she scooted. He was warm and smelled of amber, his body strong and solid beside her.
“Ready?” he asked, looking down at her. Genevieve forgot how to breathe for a moment. He raised a brow, and she finally managed to nod.
She placed her hands on the keys, annoyed to see they were shaky. Lord Emory placed his on the keys as well. He began, and she followed at his pace. He played quite slowly at first, hesitant and seeming to try to remember the notes, but as they moved along, he gained confidence. By the end of the piece, he had added a few dynamics and flourishes, and even Genevieve was impressed.
Frances clapped at the end and said, “Again!”
Oh, no. Genevieve stood rapidly. Her head was already swimming at his closeness. She couldn’t stay pressed against him. “Maybe another time. I’m sure Lord Emory is quite busy.”
“I hate that name. Emory,” he said suddenly. “No one calls me that. Call me Rory.”
“That seems far too familiar, my lord.”
“May I call you Rory?” Frances asked.
“No.” He bent down and tapped her on the nose. “You call mePapa.”
Frances smiled at him, and Genevieve couldn’t stop herself from smiling as well. Finally, a connection seemed to be forming between the two of them.
He glanced at Genevieve, who quickly schooled her face. “In point of fact,” he said, “I am not at all occupied today. Every day I hear you laughing and shouting and having a brilliant time with that dog. I wanted to join in today.”
Genevieve glanced at the window again. “I fear it’s too wet to go out today.”
Lord Emory—Rory—put his hands on his slim hips. “Are there any indoor games we might play?”
