bottom of a bowl.
He dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. Today wasnât going any better than yesterday, or last week or the past year.
He glanced over the top of the pages to where the medieval book lay open. Lady Matildaâs sad yet determined stare met his from the vellum. He reached out and ran one finger over the black lines of her face and eyes. The pensive notes of the pianoforte slid beneath the image, the despair in the lower octaves contradicted by the hope ringing in the brief tinkle of the higher ones.
He chewed the end of his pen as he listened to Miss Domville playing, his teeth finding the familiar grooves as a new story began to separate itself in his mind from his worries and frustration. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The image of a regal lady wearing a fine blue kirtle over a red-velvet dress slid through the mist blanketing a thick forest. Lady Matilda, one slender hand on a damp and knotted oak, paused as if finally ready to reveal what sheâd been keeping from him. He rolled the scarred wood of his pen between his thumb and forefinger as he watched the elusive lady threatening to vanish into the mist-covered trees.
âCome on, out with it,â he growled, frustrated by her coquetry. He needed her to guide him and help release the steady stream of ideas being held back by this interminable block.
Behind the teasing curve of Lady Matildaâs smile, the melody of Miss Domvilleâs playing curled like smoke around him and the woman. In the vibrating notes, Lady Matildaâs tale suddenly revealed itself.
He opened his eyes, slid a clean sheet of paper on to the blotter and began to write. The words flowed as fast as the notes of first one piece and then another as page after page took shape beneath his pen. He was so engrossed in the story, an hour later he failed to notice when the music faded into nothingness, the cover pulled down over the keys and soft footsteps left the music room.
The only things which remained were his story and the faint scent of peonies.
Chapter Four
M arianne played the section again and frowned. The last note wasnât right. She tried the C instead of the D, then nodded. Taking up her pen, she dipped the nib in the inkwell next to the stand and drew a quarter note on the staff. She played the section again, smiling as the stanza fell into place, the first half of her composition nearly complete. Reaching the end of it, she held her foot down on the pedal, allowing the chords to resonate off into the air.
Lady Ellingtonâs Broadwood was a gorgeous instrument, but not as grand as Sir Warrenâs Ãrard. She wondered how rich and full the piece would sound on his instrument.
Excellent, Iâm sure. She picked up the pen and changed the half note at the end to a whole one. She wasnât likely to play at Priorton Abbey again. Her skin prickled beneath the netting of the fichu covering her chest as the memory of Sir Warren listening to her story about Madame de Badeau came rushing back. She shouldnât have confided in him. Sheâd been in a panic for days over her mistake, waiting for any hint of the truth of her parentage to make the rounds. Thereâd been nothing but silence on the matter. The only gossip sheâd heard had concerned Lord Malvernâs near indiscretion with a maid at Lord Cartwrightâs hunting party.
She replayed the stanza, holding the end longer to reflect her correction, contemplating Sir Warrenâs silence more than her music. With no word from anyone at Priorton since their visit, it was plain the incidents from two weeks ago had been forgotten. It irritated her as much as a missed note, even though she should be glad. Sheâd allowed his kindness to trick her into revealing her ugly secret. Heaven knew what other mistakes, or deeper weakness, might have been revealed if sheâd had the chance to know Sir Warren better.
âBeautiful, as always, my
He dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. Today wasnât going any better than yesterday, or last week or the past year.
He glanced over the top of the pages to where the medieval book lay open. Lady Matildaâs sad yet determined stare met his from the vellum. He reached out and ran one finger over the black lines of her face and eyes. The pensive notes of the pianoforte slid beneath the image, the despair in the lower octaves contradicted by the hope ringing in the brief tinkle of the higher ones.
He chewed the end of his pen as he listened to Miss Domville playing, his teeth finding the familiar grooves as a new story began to separate itself in his mind from his worries and frustration. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The image of a regal lady wearing a fine blue kirtle over a red-velvet dress slid through the mist blanketing a thick forest. Lady Matilda, one slender hand on a damp and knotted oak, paused as if finally ready to reveal what sheâd been keeping from him. He rolled the scarred wood of his pen between his thumb and forefinger as he watched the elusive lady threatening to vanish into the mist-covered trees.
âCome on, out with it,â he growled, frustrated by her coquetry. He needed her to guide him and help release the steady stream of ideas being held back by this interminable block.
Behind the teasing curve of Lady Matildaâs smile, the melody of Miss Domvilleâs playing curled like smoke around him and the woman. In the vibrating notes, Lady Matildaâs tale suddenly revealed itself.
He opened his eyes, slid a clean sheet of paper on to the blotter and began to write. The words flowed as fast as the notes of first one piece and then another as page after page took shape beneath his pen. He was so engrossed in the story, an hour later he failed to notice when the music faded into nothingness, the cover pulled down over the keys and soft footsteps left the music room.
The only things which remained were his story and the faint scent of peonies.
Chapter Four
M arianne played the section again and frowned. The last note wasnât right. She tried the C instead of the D, then nodded. Taking up her pen, she dipped the nib in the inkwell next to the stand and drew a quarter note on the staff. She played the section again, smiling as the stanza fell into place, the first half of her composition nearly complete. Reaching the end of it, she held her foot down on the pedal, allowing the chords to resonate off into the air.
Lady Ellingtonâs Broadwood was a gorgeous instrument, but not as grand as Sir Warrenâs Ãrard. She wondered how rich and full the piece would sound on his instrument.
Excellent, Iâm sure. She picked up the pen and changed the half note at the end to a whole one. She wasnât likely to play at Priorton Abbey again. Her skin prickled beneath the netting of the fichu covering her chest as the memory of Sir Warren listening to her story about Madame de Badeau came rushing back. She shouldnât have confided in him. Sheâd been in a panic for days over her mistake, waiting for any hint of the truth of her parentage to make the rounds. Thereâd been nothing but silence on the matter. The only gossip sheâd heard had concerned Lord Malvernâs near indiscretion with a maid at Lord Cartwrightâs hunting party.
She replayed the stanza, holding the end longer to reflect her correction, contemplating Sir Warrenâs silence more than her music. With no word from anyone at Priorton since their visit, it was plain the incidents from two weeks ago had been forgotten. It irritated her as much as a missed note, even though she should be glad. Sheâd allowed his kindness to trick her into revealing her ugly secret. Heaven knew what other mistakes, or deeper weakness, might have been revealed if sheâd had the chance to know Sir Warren better.
âBeautiful, as always, my
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