Strathmere's Bride by Jacqueline Navin

herself under control.
    Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths. When she opened them again, she leveled an icy stare at her son. “Now, kindly explain what you meant by that absurd remark.”
    “Only that Miss Chloe caused no harm to the children. I’ll grant you,” he added, holding a hand against her prepared objections, “that she is irresponsible, and I have told her she may not take the children out without my permission. I believe that should settle the matter.”
    His mother looked pleased as they fell into an uneasy silence.
    “Strathmere?” she said suddenly.
    “Yes, Mother.”
    “When did you begin addressing Miss Pesserat as ‘Miss Chloe’?”
    Jareth didn’t answer, and to his great relief, his mother did not pursue the subject.
    They arrived at the Rathford mansion, a beautiful Palladian masterpiece. Disappointingly, Lord Rathford was not in attendance, so Jareth took refreshment with the ladies in the grand salon, which showed the Rathfords’ affluence to its fullest advantage. Looking about, Jareth felt a wave of distaste for the gaudy Florentine pilasters and gold leafing all about, regular fare for the grand Georgian era that had just passed. For his own tastes he preferred the subtle distinction of aged wood rubbed with lemon oil until the patina shone. He also liked sturdy chairs, something of some substance upon which to sit rather than these delicate things with spindly legs and carved backs that dug into the flesh.
    They seemed to suit Helena, however. Back rigid, she perched on the Sheridan chair as effortlessly elegant as a Madonna. Her cap of cleverly arranged ringlets caught the sun. It was a beautiful shade of blonde, so pale. She sat in rapt attention to her mother, who was speaking on some subject Jareth could hardly muster any interest in until he heard his name.
    “…the music room. Go ahead, Helena. Show the duke the pianoforte used by Mozart himself.”
    Of course, he should have known. Lady Rathford had been bragging.
    Helena looked at him with that soft gaze of hers. “Would you like to see it, your grace?” He thought he detected a silent apology for her mother’s conceit.
    Jareth felt a pang of resentment at being moved around like a helpless pawn, done so expertly by these matrons, but squelched it as unimportant.
    “That would be entirely enjoyable,” he replied with a bow.
    Helena led the way. The music room was on the second floor, a grand chamber with pointed vaults crisscrossing the painted ceiling, where cherubs frolicked in naked abandon. The classical technique was stunning. Jareth stopped to admire it from the doorway.
    “Absolutely lovely.”
    “Are you a patron of the architectural sciences, your grace?”
    “Only an admirer.”
    He wandered about, eyeing the treasures ensconced within the magnificent room.
    Helena walked behind him. “Do you enjoy music?”
    “Listening only. I have no talent. I see your family has a love for it, do they not?”
    “Yes, we do favor music.”
    Jareth waved his hand at the pianoforte. “Do you play?”
    “Of course,” she answered, and sat down dutifully. “What would you like to hear?”
    “Something airy, nothing dark. My thoughts are gloomy enough today.”
    “I believe I have something,” she said. Her long, elegant fingers closed over the keys. He watched as they moved up and down the keyboard, coaxing from the instrument a lilting, playful melody that made him smile.
    She didn’t smile, however. The same pained look came over her face as he had seen when she sang. It distorted the careful beauty. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head down and to one side as she played, brows drawn in concentration, then occasionallyshooting upward as though she were surprised by a particularly sprightly part of the piece.
    As with her song, the music was powerful. It ended abruptly, and she bowed her head, seeming to need a moment to collect herself before the serene expression was back in place and she raised her