“Water, my friend. It is your greatest ally against brandy’s savage assault,” Henry replied, feeling oddly nervous about the evening to come. He knew Arabella might be there, and yet part of him was hoping she would not make an appearance, for she had made quite enough appearances in his thoughts over the past two days since their last encounter.
It was part of the reason he had not imbibed nearly as much as Seth the night before, as it appeared that drinking made his thoughts of Arabella even more wayward. He had learned that lesson the evening Arabella had departed London again, when too much brandy had prompted his hand to foolishly scribble a note before demanding that an express rider deliver it with the utmost urgency.
Although, he somewhat blamed his friend for those impulsive actions.
“You must write to her! A hero must always send a token to his damsel after she has suffered gravely!” Seth had barked with his arms wide open, as though he were trying to stir the attentions of a vast crowd. In reality, it had only been the two of them, supping liquor in the safety of Henry’s drawing room.
Henry had nodded vigorously. “You are quite right, I must! What token shall I send?”
“Your pocket-watch. Yes, your pocket-watch!” Seth had enthused. “Then she will know that you are counting the minutes until you see her again. It is perfection! I am a genius!”
Squinting at the paper on his desk, Henry had penned the note to Arabella, urging her to dine with him at Lord Talbot’s, even though he loathed Lord Talbot’s drab little dinners. Miraculously, his expert handwriting had not been affected by his inebriation, but when it came to stamping the letter… Well, at the time, he had thought it might be the greatest wax seal he had ever created, but the truth was far less flattering.
As for the pocket-watch, Henry had entirely forgotten to include it, though he had not realized that until after the express rider had charged away.
“How will she know?” he had lamented, pouring another large measure.
Seth had flopped down beside his friend and clinked his glass. “She will know, my friend. Ladies always do. They read more into our words than we think when we write them. The token is already there, Dear Haskett. It is… an intangible entity, but she will pluck it from the ink—mark my words.”
The intolerable headache the next day had brought back foggy memories of what Henry had written, and he had grimaced at his drunken stupidity. Then, quite unexpectedly, Arabella had drifted out of the brandy-infused haze and into the forefront of his mind.
He had pictured her after her collapse in Hyde Park, remembering it so vividly that he could almost feel her in his arms again, when he had held her close to his chest. Even now, he did not know what had possessed him to clutch her like that. All he knew was that relief had flooded his chest and the next minute, his arms were around her, and she was flush against him to the point where he could not breathe properly. He had even been able to recall the press of her chin in the indent of his collarbone.
Throughout the past two days, those memories had persevered. Sometimes, they were of her walking with her mother in the moonlight at Lord Chisholm’s ball. Sometimes, they were of how pretty she had looked in her pastel gown, with her cheeks flushed by the summer warmth. Sometimes, they were of him pressing his lips to her hand and recalling the silky caress of her glove, or her playful nudge to his ribs. But, every time, the memories troubled him.
It is merely competitiveness, or some streak of protectiveness. I would not be thinking of her at all if Lord Powell were not prowling around her,he told himself as the carriage rolled on toward Lord Talbot’s townhouse. It was barely a ten-minute ride from Henry’s own townhouse, but Seth had not wanted to walk in his fragile condition.
“I suppose we must put on our polite faces,” Seth muttered, as the carriage came to a halt outside Lord Talbot’s.
Henry straightened up. “Indeed we must. Man the cannons, hoist the sails, ready arms—we are heading into the greatest battle of our lives.” He flashed a wicked grin at his friend. “First to fall asleep loses.”
“I might as well surrender now.” Seth chuckled. “If I do, will you let me go home?”
Henry shook his head. “Not a chance, my friend.”
Getting out of the carriage, Henry led the way up the steep porch steps, where they were welcomed in and led to the music room by a footman. A rather tuneless quartet were playing a dirge in the corner. At least, that was what it sounded like to Henry’s ears and judging by the other guests’ somber expressions, they were in agreement.
“Lord Milford, Lord Haskett, how gracious of you to come!” Lord Talbot ran to the newcomers with desperation in his watery blue eyes. “Lord Haskett, I hate to impose, but might you play something for us on the pianoforte?”
Henry raised an eyebrow. “I have not even had the chance to take a breath, Lord Talbot.”
“I realize that, Lord Haskett, but I would truly be grateful if you would play something,” Lord Talbot urged, in a tone that bordered on begging. The poor soul had always had lofty ideas about being the greatest thrower of parties in all of Society. Instead, he was infamous for arranging glib, boring affairs. Indeed, it was a wonder anyone still attended these gatherings, though Henry had to admit that the food was always exemplary.
“Of course, Dear Talbot.” Henry clapped the man on the shoulder. “I was only teasing.”
Lord Talbot looked like he might faint from relief. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”
Meandering through the small crowd of around twelve guests, Henry offered welcomes and waves to the ladies and gentlemen, before seating himself at the pianoforte. The quartet ceased immediately, slumping forward like they had finally broken out of their Sisyphean task. However, Henry was not quite ready to liberate them of their duties.
“Do you know the strings to, “Come Fill, Fill, My Good Fellow”?” he asked the startled musicians.
They nodded stiffly.
“On my count, begin,” Henry instructed and immediately dove into the dramatic movement. His skilled fingers danced across the ivories, attracting the full attention of everyone present. A few seconds later, the strings came in, adding depth and greater feeling to the piece. He contemplated singing in his rich baritone but thought better of it. That could wait until after dinner.
Before he knew it, he was fully invested in the music, sinking into its mesmerizing pull. His eyes closed, for he knew this piece like he knew his own name, while his body swayed, his head shook to the rise and fall of the powerful piece, and his fingers moved gracefully, as if he were controlling an elaborate marionette.
He was not even aware that the guests had crowded around in admiration. Once upon a time, his mother and father had hoped he might become one of the greatest pianoforte virtuosos in the country, but he had grown lazy after his childhood had come to an end and had infuriated his teacher by refusing to practice. Still, he remained quite the central event at parties.
