Page 23 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

“So now you teach a merchant’s children to play and sing. In Cheapside.” Sebastian’s fist clenched where it lay on his thigh. “Do you never sing yourself anymore?”

“I sometimes sing lullabies to Clara and Cora when they cannot sleep.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.” Sylvia turned her gaze back to the window. “The answer is no, my lord. I do not sing anymore. Not in the way that I did before Papa died. There are no musical evenings at Mr. and Mrs. Dinwiddy’s house and no Penelope Mainwaring to accompany me on the piano. Excepting lullabies, I do not sing at all. Not even for myself.”

“There is a music room here.”

“Oh?”

“If Julia accompanies you, perhaps you might sing as you once did.”

She looked at him again, achingly aware that his own gaze had never wavered. It was then that she saw that the haughty, sneering expression with which he had regarded her for much of their conversation was strangely absent. She wondered when it had gone—and when it would come back again. “Tonight?”

“Any night.”

A troubled frown knit her brow. “Does that mean I am welcome to remain here at Pershing Hall? After everything you said to me, I assumed—”

“I lost my temper,” he said. “I will not pretend it was the first time.”

It was not an apology, though Sylvia suspected it was as close to one as she was likely to receive from him. Even so, it was not enough. “You hurt me with what you said.”

He failed to conceal a wince. “Miss Stafford, I—”

“Did you think that I could not be hurt?” she asked. “Did you think that because I am a servant now that I would not feel it here” —she pressed her hand to her heart— “every time you speak to me as if you hate me?”

Sebastian’s expression darkened with something very like anguish. For several seconds, her words hung heavy in the silence between them.

“I don’t hate you,” he said finally. “I have never hated you.”

Sylvia’s lower lip wobbled. She turned away from him, blinking back the fresh sting of tears. “H-Haven’t you?”

“No,” he said. And then more strongly, “No.” He leaned closer to her, crushing her heavy skirts beneath his leg. She felt his warm breath brush against her hair. “I spoke cruelly, Miss Stafford. It was badly done of me.”

“I did not deserve it.”

“No. You did not. I should never have addressed you as I did. And if you will forgive me…”

A faint spark of hope kindled in Sylvia’s breast. “Are you apologizing to me, sir?”

“I am,” he said. His voice roughened. “I don’t want you to leave.”

His words brought a flush of color to her cheeks. She closed her eyes for a moment. And then she turned to face him. “I thought it was a mistake to come here,” she confessed. “But if there was a way to put the unfortunate past behind us…A way to start again. As friends. We were friends once, were we not? Before that stupid letter?”

He gave her another long, searching look. “We were friends, Miss Stafford,” he said. “And I very much hope we will be so again.”

Julia found them in the picture gallery only a short time later. She was in extraordinarily high spirits, which she claimed were a result of having had an “excellent rest,” but which Sebastian knew were really a consequence of having discovered him alone with Miss Stafford. His sister was never so cheerful as when she thought one of her interfering schemes was successfully coming to fruition.

She tried to persuade him to join them downstairs for tea. He scarcely heard her. His mind was in turmoil. He made his excuses and, with a level of civility that plainly astonished his sister, he took his leave of them. Minutes later, he was safely ensconced in his private sitting room, seated in front of the hearth with a very large glass of brandy in his hand. He stared unseeing into the fire.

Miss Stafford had sent him letters.

Perfumed letters sealed with a thousand kisses.

Could it be true? A clever woman might make up such a tale to convince him that she had cared for him all along. A convenient story now that he was the Earl of Radcliffe.

But Miss Stafford had not been lying. He had seen that plainly enough. She had been deeply mortified. Confound it, she had been hurt. But she had not been dishonest. She had, apparently, never been dishonest.