Clara looked at him in stupefaction from the pianoforte stool. He’d saved her from possibly the most humiliating scene of her life. She wanted to run over and hug him, and kiss him, and run her hands all over his body until he begged her to stop. Instead, she just gave a small nod and stood, standing by the pianoforte. Rook leafed through some sheaves of music and finally pulled one out.
Peering at the title, whilst Rook seated himself, Clara felt confused. It seemed to involve a dairymaid and a shepherd called Billy. She frowned; she’d never heard of that one.
Rook then proceeded to launch into the most excruciatingly awful, but amusingly outrageous ditty, about the passions of a shepherd called Billy for a dairymaid called Milly. The men roared with approval; the married ladies tittered silently behind their fans; the young girls smiled, but looked rather mystified.
Clara probably knew more about the mysteries of the relations between men and women than most. She had seen some vivid scenes on Greek vases after all, but whatdida ‘sugar stick’have to do with it?
Once the furore had died down, other gentlemen decided to play, and the scene became even more raucous. Some of the younger ladies were shuffled discreetly upstairs and even Lady Minkworth broke a smile, as Jack sang about a ‘Naughty lass from Islington’, whilst winking directly at her.
“I thank you, my lord, for rescuing me.” Clara turned to Rook. Immediately after his song, he had shepherded her to the refreshments table, presumably so Hestia could not hold her hostage again.
“No need for thanks, Clara. One of my cousins hates this type of thing and has a dire dread of performing in public. I recognised that look on your face.”
“Oh…erm… yes. Of course.” He had given her reason for her reticence, and Clara would be a fool not to take it. “It’s only in such large gatherings that I dislike the attention. I grew up in a quiet, scholarly household.” Clara crossed her fingers at the lie – her uncle had often trotted her out to play for his cronies – she’d loved it.
Rook’s gaze rested on her, and she met his eyes. Neither said a word. It was as though a sudden, silent bubble had formed around them, cutting off the raucous room.
An elbow in the side nearly flung Clara into Rook. “Time to depart, young lady. You may be older but you are still an unmarried Miss and this music is… well, it’s even putting me to blush.” Clara groaned inwardly – a fine time for her aunt suddenly to remember she was supposed to be a chaperone.
“I fear she may be right,” agreed Rook with a devilish twinkle in his eye. “Jack is starting on his own composition about a woman and her… cat.”
Clara frowned. How could that be risqué?
She was outvoted, however, and she made her way reluctantly to her chambers, aware of Rook’s eyes following her out of the room.
ΦΦΦ
