“I do wonder if Mr. Garwick will be playing the flute tonight,” Daphne said. She had been trying to break up the silence for their short carriage journey to Lady Smith’s house. “Oh! And last time, Miss Mottram played a delightful piece on the pianoforte. The two would make a fine duet together. What do you think, Graham?”
He spared a withering look at his sister, only nodding in response.
Silence fell once again until Felicity spoke up. “Amelia, you have not attended one of my sister’s musicale evenings. What are you most looking forward to?”
Amelia glanced at Graham, who had his eyes on his mother, as if listening and taking notice, but offering no input. “I would say perhaps that all eyes will be on the musicians,” Amelia said. “It will be a lovely reprieve. I hope it… lifts spirits all around.”
Her delicately worded snipe at Graham landed, she thought, when he flinched.
“I am looking forward to watching the harp player this year,” Felicity continued. “She was not able to play last year due to an injury involving one of her father’s horses. I do hope her playing is as beautiful as my friends have said.”
“Graham, you have yet to hear Amelia’s pianoforte prowess,” Daphne chirped up, clearly trying to bridge their silence. “She is most excellent.”
“I do not doubt it,” he muttered, shifting. He glanced at Amelia, and the two only gazed at one another for a long moment before looking away.
“Anyhow, it is nice to get out of the house,” Felicity sighed.
Soon, they pulled up outside the very townhouse where Amelia hadmet Graham for the first time. That sheer fact alone sent a thrill through her, and she glanced at him, offering a small smile. His face was tight, his brows pulling together. Without a word, he climbed out of the carriage, and helped his mother and sister down to the pavement.
When it came to Amelia’s turn, he met her eyes and nodded at her briefly. He grasped her elbow before guiding her down. For a moment, he did not let go, and Amelia’s breath caught as she looked up at him.
By the time she pulled away to enter the townhouse, a crowd of guests had gathered in the drawing room. She remembered hesitating to enter this very room after meeting Graham for the first time, thinking she might never see him again.
Now, she glanced back, and found him approach her. A quiet hum of conversation filled the room, and she was eager to delve into it. Through the crowd, she spotted Eleanor and Lord Owen, both of them stood with her parents. Lord Fairfax was laughing with Lord Owen over something, and a pang went through Amelia at the sight of it. Her own father had attempted to laugh with Graham over a tense wedding breakfast but there had been nothing of this easy rapport she saw. She hovered for too long, she realized, when Graham stood alongside her. His eyes were fixed on their friends up ahead, his jaw tight.
The backs of their hands brushed.
Amelia walked on, ignoring him.
As she approached, she noticed Lady Cassandra and Lady Beatrice holding court in one corner of the room, their eyes flitting over the guests. When Cassandra met Amelia’s eyes, Amelia saw a keen glint in them. Pointedly, Cassandra did not look away as she whispered to another lady.
Graham stood in her way, blocking her view. Although he did not yet break his silence, he stared at her meaningfully. Amelia looked right back, willing him to speak. He did not, but he only guided her away from Cassandra’s line of sight.
Lady Victoria was up ahead, bustling about the front line of her guests, ensuring everybody had the refreshments they had requested, and that everybody had enough space.
Daphne grabbed Amelia’s hand and tugged her forward, grinning, as the first musician settled at the pianoforte.
“This is Mr. Tarling,” she whispered. “Just wait, Amelia, for you are about to hearmagic.”
***
Graham’s feeble attempt to block Amelia from looking at those whohad spread malicious gossip about them was not enough but it was something, and he had met her gaze, finding a touch of soft anticipation in her eyes until Daphne had pulled her away.
He joined them, sitting down at the table his aunt had prepared for them. A candle with a jar around it to contain the light flickered away, casting Amelia in a beautiful glow as she watched the first musician. The notes of Mozart filled the room, and Graham found himself relaxing at the familiar swell of music. He had always loved it, and had often watched as Henry had played in the drawing room of his own home years ago. The memory of the music, of sitting with Thomas and him as they watched their friend, pierced Graham painfully, yet it allowed him some comforts, to try and fondly recall his friends rather than constantly grieve.
His eyes filled with tears. He had not attended one of these evenings ever since that duel but Felicity had told him that morning that he was, under no circumstances, to refuse. He looked across at his wife, finding her captivated, her mouth parted in awe. Her eyes held a distant, dreamy look, as if she was lost in the music. A small smile lingered on her lips, and Graham had the most indecent urge to lean over and kiss her.
I want to make her as happy as this music is making her, he thought tenderly, only to remind himself of how he had snapped at her the day before, sending her fleeing from the room. How could he trust himself not to do that every time he was caught in his own head?
Emotions played out on Amelia’s face, and even for that brief moment of the song, he imagined a world where hedidmake her happy. Where he could greet his past with open arms rather than thorns and pain. In his lap, his hands clenched.
Take her hand, he thought, agonized. Heavens, he felt sick with how much he wanted her.Reach out for her.
He looked at her clasped hands. Why could he not justdo it?
His heart rebelled at how tightly he kept his hands to himself. He wanted nothing more than to revel in her joy alongside her but he did not move. He was frozen stiff, his mind replaying what had happened the last time he had tried to be good, do good, stop somebody’s pain.
The gunshot cracked through Putney Heath, so loud it seemed to shake even the trees. A scream pierced the air, and a gasp, the thud of a gun dropping. And then Henry—falling to the floor, his chest blooming with blood as surely as a poppy bloomed in a field of green.
