“Do I have to?” Rook asked Jack forlornly. They were both slumped in chairs.
“Yes, you are the host.”
“I hate singing, and the pianoforte makes my head hurt.”
“That’s all the beer you sank at luncheon. You could always ask Clara for another game of chess.”
Rook glared, and Jack gave an easy smile. “I can’t, Jack. Not until I’ve found my masquerade woman. What does that say about me? That I can be so…so…” He couldn’t find the word.
“Besotted?” queried Jack dryly.
“Interested,” he corrected with a frown, “in two women at the same time?”
“Are you sure it’s not Clara?”
“Positive. She was honest when she said she’d never been kissed before. Why would she lie? And my mystery woman was very… passionate, shall we say.”
“And you don’t think Clara would be?”
Rook rubbed a hand over his chin. “Possibly,” he admitted gruffly, remembering the sweet kiss in the knot garden. “But until I have this woman out of my mind, I don’t think it fair to pursue Clara.”
Jack put his hands up in surrender. “Music it is then.” And Rook gave the groan of a defeated man.
So far, Clara had managed to avoid the pianoforte. Nearly all the ladies had either played or sung; the gentlemen had clapped attentively. She had contrived to sit at the back of the room, on a small couch by the window. Her heart had stirred at much of the music, and Hestia, in particular, was a magnificent pianist, playing a beautiful Pleyel sonata. Clara had been enraptured, as had been most of the other guests.
From this position, she had been able to see the back of Rook’s head. She could have sworn he had slept through Lady Minkworth’s rendition.
“Anyone to play next?” Hestia was asking, and Clara shrank into her seat.
“M’cousin, she plays like a wonder,” a slurred voice uttered from the other corner of the room. Clara froze in horror, wondering if she could elegantly fall backwards off the couch, and then slide under the curtains behind her.
There was a polite titter at the drunken voice. It was hardly the first time a man was in his cups, and most gentlemen could sympathise with the sot – the house party was going on a very long time.
“And who is your cousin, Sir?” Hestia questioned politely.
“My sweet Clara, ‘course. Played like an angel.” His next sentence broke off into a snore. “All my fault…” But no-one was listening. They were looking around for Clara.
“Clara dear, what are you doing hiding at the back?” Hestia, the absolute betrayer of womankind, asked.
Clara had frozen. She felt her whole body go cold, so very cold, and then she heated up, her face exploding into a fiery blush – she would kill Ralph – slowly and painfully.
“I can’t, I don’t…” But Hestia was pulling her up from the couch. How could Clara have ever liked this woman? She was a witch.
“No need to be shy,” Hestia whispered reassuringly. “We have had all levels of expertise tonight, and it’s amongst friends. We are not here to judge.”
Clara looked at Hestia as though she was talking Greek. Was she mad? Of course it was all judged. Tomorrow, the ladies would be comparing daughter’s performances, agreeing who wasn’t a threat on the marriage mart and generally pulling apart anyone who wasn’t ‘up to snuff’, as her uncle would say.
Clara was literally dragged to the front. Faces became a blur, but they all seemed to wear evil grins. She cast a beseeching look at Jack, and he looked as though he may rise, but she saw Rook’s hand on his shoulder, staying his movement.
Bastard, she thought. That was the ugliest term of her uncle’s that she could think of. She would have to faint; it was the only recourse – embarrassing but not fatal.
Hestia was just about to sit her on the pianoforte stool, whilst Clara was ready to fall into a dramatic and humiliating swoon, when a deep, clear voice cut through the room.
“Now Hestia, personally I think the ladies have hogged the pianoforte long enough. Do you not agree gentlemen?” There were some half-hearted cheers to this pronouncement, and a hearty ‘hoorah’ from Jack. One didn’t argue with an earl after all, especially not Rookdean.
Clara’s eyes collided with his. “If Miss Lockwood would forgive me? I know a little something that might…” he was about to say ‘cheer everybody up’, but Hestia was glaring daggers at him, and he changed it to something more prudent. “Bring a tear to the eye,” he finished.
“Miss Lockwood, if you would be so kind as to turn the pages for me?”
