“Oh, how clumsy of me!” She bent down to gather the papers and handed them to him, still on one knee. And winked at him.
And moved on.
David had trouble catching his breath. He’d never make it as a thespian; he felt his cheeks flush. He desperately wanted to break out in a huge grin. And all from just a hint of a smile and the quickest, most subtle of winks.
To distract himself, he arranged the sheets of music on his stand.
Hold on.
One sheet had crease marks. This was a hand printed sheet, but these were not his or Lydia’s marks, and it had no title. There was no key signature, no harmony, and barely eight bars of melody, all of it in bass clef.
Under the buzz of conversation, he hummed what few notes were there.
This was it!
The melody that had haunted the fringe of his memory!
He searched the crowded room until he found Ashley, adjusting her shawl as she resumed her seat on the sofa, music sheets in hand. He drew breath to speak to her, then remembered the room full of people, and realized he would have to be patient a little while longer.
Lydia and Diana took turns leading them through one interminable song after another. David hadn’t had this much trouble concentrating since his voice started to crack when he was thirteen. Finally the refreshment trays were brought in and he was able to seek out Ashley without being obvious.
“Is that your original composition?” He took a drink of his lemon and honey tea.
Ashley paused with her cup halfway to her mouth. “You do not recognize it?”
“Should I?”
She took a sip, but he could swear she did so only to hide her smile. Unsuccessfully. At last she glanced up at him. “A gentleman acquaintance of mine recently hummed that tune when he was inebriated.”
David fought an irrational rush of jealousy. Who the blazes had she been with, when the man was inebriated? Didn’t she know how dangerous that could be?
She continued to look at him, a hint of a smile tilting her mouth, her eyebrows raised.
He almost smacked his forehead. He winced. No wonder he knew the tune yet had so much trouble recollecting it.
“Just so.” She took a bite of a biscuit. “I wrote it down as best I could remember. I trust you can finish it.”
He could kiss her. Admired his great restraint in resisting the almost overwhelming urge to do so. He patted his waistcoat pocket, where he had tucked the folded sheet. “At my earliest convenience.” They had moved away from the tray as they spoke, and now stood by the pianoforte, as alone as they could be in this room teeming with his relatives. Or soon-to-be relative, glancing at Clarissa and Norcross surreptitiously holding hands. Good thing their wedding was only a couple of days away.
“What did you think of Lydia’s composition?”
Ashley took entirely too long to chew and swallow a tiny bite of biscuit. “It’s better than the first time I heard it. I like the changes you made.”
“Just as I feared. It’s bad, isn’t it?” He offered his snuffbox to Ashley, who selected a honey and lemon pastille and popped it in her mouth. He selected one for himself and put the snuffbox away.
Ashley shook her head, then shrugged. “I can’t really compare as I haven’t heard very many original compositions. Songs that aren’t already popular.” The look of delight that crossed her face when the sweet began to dissolve in her mouth nearly undid his resolve to not kiss her in public.
Now that he was closer and they had good light from the candelabrum on the pianoforte, he noticed the shadows beneath her eyes. Was she still fatigued from the sleepless nights she’d spent taking care of him? He wanted to wrap her in his arms. He settled for tugging her shawl farther up one shoulder. “Is everything all right? You seem troubled.”
He saw the denial forming on her lips, but as she looked into his eyes, her shoulders slumped the tiniest bit. “I’ve had bad news by mail,” she quietly admitted. “More people saying no.”
Ah, her search for employment. He glanced around to see if anyone within earshot was paying them any attention. “Honey,you’re looking for the wrong sort of employment. You’re not a teacher.”
She inhaled a deep breath to rebut, a flare of anger in her light brown eyes, her bosom heaving in a most distracting way. “How can you say that? How—” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You just called me honey.”
With one fingertip, he stroked the tendril of hair that had been allowed to curl beside her face, down to her bare collarbone. “It’s the color. I would describe it as old honey, but a lady acquaintance recently advised me it is ungallant to use the word ‘old’ in any description of a woman.”
That teased a ghost of a smile from her.
