Coming to the end of his first trick, Henry called back to the musicians, his eyes still closed. “The Lass of Richmond Hill!”
Flowing straight into it, he smiled at the skill of the quartet. They had talent, after all, but had likely been told to play something sedate. This time, however, he could not help but sing, for the jauntiness of the tune felt hollow without it. Usually, singing made him feel self-conscious, but as long as he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend he was alone.
His baritone rumbled out across the small music room, joined soon after by the familiar bass of Seth’s excellent singing voice. Together, they triumphed over the Lass of Richmond Hill, until the last notes were racing toward Henry. Knowing he ought to play one more to keep the crowd entertained, he made a bold decision.
“Please, sing if you know the words,” he announced with a grin, as he jumped from the vigor of the last tune, and went right into the melancholy prowess of “Piano Sonata No. 14.” He would only play the first movement, though the third was more impressive, but he knew the ladies present would prefer the sad, romantic nature of the first.
A whisper of confusion rippled through the guests, forcing Henry to stifle a laugh. Of course, there were no words to this sonata.
Carried away by the music once more, Henry opened his eyes and almost stopped playing in alarm. Six ladies were gathered in a horseshoe around the end of the pianoforte, while the gentlemen nodded in approval. One of the ladies, in particular, was looking at him with greater intensity than the others.
Pretty in a classical fashion, with braided, near-black hair that was styled up in an intricate bun, the higher part was flanked by two jeweled slides that resembled laurel wreaths. Her eyes, like her hair, were so dark that he could not distinguish the iris from the pupil, giving them a mysterious, enchanting air.
They are not warm, like Arabella’s,his mind remarked unbidden. He missed a note and cursed silently at his unruly brain, though no one seemed to notice his slight mistake.
Trying not to stare back at the young woman, Henry let his gaze drift across the gathered group, wanting to include everyone in his impromptu entertainment. Just then, laughter erupted from outside the music room, drawing his attention as his fingertips continued to work their magic upon the pianoforte. It was a sweet, whimsical laugh that contrasted starkly with the sadness of the piece.
He frowned at the half open doorway of the music room, thinking it rather rude that people were out there laughing while he was doing his best to put on a concert. Yet, he could not see the culprit, for the door was in the way.
“Come in and listen to this wondrous display,” Lord Talbot urged, opening the door wider and ushering in two people.
Staring in disbelief, Henry’s fingertips jammed discordantly on the wrong keys—a mistake he could not cover up so easily. For Arabella had just walked in, her hand resting lightly on the forearm of none other than Lord Powell.
Is this not what you wanted? Is this not why you made this arrangement?he asked himself, turning his gaze down to the keys as he continued playing. For what else could he do?
To reflect the sharp shift in his mood, he thundered straight into Beethoven’s “Symphony No. 5,” the strings warbling in as best they could. It was not music for the pianoforte, not really, but he did not care. He needed something to block out the sound of his own thoughts.
And yet, a worrying whisper filtered through regardless,I thought it was. Truly, I thought it was.
Chapter Eleven
At the long table in Lord Talbot’s dining room, Arabella had hoped she might be seated next to Lord Powell. He had arrived at the townhouse at the same time as her, allowing them a moment to converse while the footman led them both to the music room.
“Do you hear that?” she had asked, listening to the beautiful melody of Beethoven, undulating out into the hallways.
Lord Powell had grinned. “Indeed, though I rather wish I could not. My nephew could play better than that with a saucepan and a wooden spoon.”
She did not know why, but she had laughed in response instead of standing her ground. To her, the music was lovely. Besides, a moment later, he had said, “I jest. That was grossly unfair of me. It is marvelously skillful playing—far greater than anything I could achieve. I merely wanted to make you smile, Lady Arabella.”
Upon entering the music room, she had been astonished to find that Henry was the maestro behind the wondrous playing. When he had ceased to rapturous applause, she had wanted to go to him and commend him for his talents, but guilt had held her back. He was not supposed to know she was here, and nor was her brother. As such, she had decided to be cowardly, hiding out in the drawing room with a group of ladies she did not know so she would not have to face an interrogation.
Of course, that also meant there had been no additional time for her to converse with Lord Powell, much to her disappointment.
“Ah, I am here, I suppose?” Arabella found her name-card at the seat beside Henry’s. Seth, unfortunately, was on the other side of her, meaning she could not escape the questioning that would surely come. Meanwhile, Lord Powell was all the way down the far side of the table, much too far to strike up a conversation.
And he is surrounded by such pretty ladies…
Henry smiled tightly. “I am pleased you could attend. When you did not respond, I assumed I would not see you here.”
“Pardon?” She sat down, peering around the arm of a servant as they came to drape a napkin across her lap.
“You did not respond to my letter, Lady Arabella. I vaguely remember telling you that you did not have to, but itisconsidered polite,” Henry replied. “I trust this means you are suffering no ill effects of your fainting spell?”
She stared at him, utterly bewildered. “Your letter? I received no letter from you.”
“Then how, pray tell, did you know to be here? As far as I am aware, I am the only one who offered an invitation.” His voice was oddly cold, pricking at the guilt that already roiled in her stomach.
She subtly gestured down the table. “Lord Powell invited me.” A shy smile graced her lips. “He called himself my ‘Hyde Park Hero,’ which I thought was rather sweet. In truth, I did not have much faith in this scheme of ours, but it appears you were right about admirers making themselves known.”
