“He did,” she agreed.
“Play it from the beginning,” he said. “So he can hear it correctly.”
She played it through slowly, then at tempo. At the window, Dominic did not move. She did not look toward him, and the piece ended on its final chord.
“That was correct,” James announced.
From the window: a low sound, barely a sound at all.
She played the opening bars again, and James placed his hands on the keys beside hers, and the lesson went on.
The Dowager Countess of Shrewsbury’s invitations were coveted, her suppers excellent, and her receiving line moved fast because she had opinions about guests who lingered in it.
Annabelle had attended twice as Lucien’s sister.
Attending as the Duchess of Silverford was a different order of scrutiny, and the scale of the watching was more than she had prepared for.
“They have been looking at us since we came through the door,” she said.
“They’ll stop when something more interesting appears.” Dominic looked at the room, hands loose at his sides. “It doesn’t change. You learn to carry it differently.”
Across the room, Theodore and Cressida Yeats caught their eye the way people who are fond of you do in crowded rooms — Cressida’s head inclining, warm and brief; Theodore with the measured acknowledgment he brought to an equal. Dominic returned both.
Miles appeared from the card room. “Fairmont is at the white table. Eleven pounds to a baronet and barely looking at his cards.”
Elinor followed him out. “He’s nearly done. He asked after James on the way over. I consider that a good sign.”
Lucien came through the card room door four minutes later. He found Annabelle first across the room and came toward her.
He kissed her cheek. “You look well.”
“I am,” she said.
He straightened. He looked at Dominic.
“Silverford.”
“Fairmont.”
Neither filled the pause.
“The evening suits?” Lucien asked.
“Well enough,” Dominic said.
Cressida appeared at Annabelle’s elbow. “Your Grace. You look remarkably composed for a woman who has been inspected since the receiving line.”
“I’ve been practicing the expression,” Annabelle said.
“It’s convincing.” Theodore drew Lucien into conversation about a drainage matter affecting both their Shropshire properties, and the group divided naturally.
By the fireplace, Dominic and Lucien stood without a buffer.
Annabelle did not stare, but the room was not so large, and voices carry at the edge of a crowd.
Lucien stood at the fireplace with his back half-turned to the room, his wine glass held against his chest. He was looking at the fire.
“How is the boy settling.”
