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 cannotmakeyou move, I cannot make you do anything, but I wouldsuggestthat 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 toalmosttears 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 ifSimonsaw?
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.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
