Page 40 of Yielding to Love

Camellia saw the man’s chest expand. He treated them to an hour-long discourse on writing sermons. She feared Neville would nod off. But it carried them through to the end of the meal.

Unfortunately, they could not then simply tell the Castors to go home.

“Shall we?” Neville said, gesturing across the room. “Camellia will play for us.”

They all rose, and the major wheeled Neville’s chair toward the pianoforte. Camellia’s hands felt hot, and the back of her neck itched at the thought of having to play. The Castors would not be an appreciative audience. And the major had a very discerning ear.

“Do you play, Major?” she asked, holding back.

“Yes, I do.” He didn’t try to downplay his ability. He didn’t boast of it, either.

“Why don’t you play for us,” she said. “I will if I must, but it was my music teacher who said that I sing better than I play.”

He gave her a sympathetic grin, then stepped around Neville’s chair and took a seat on the bench. He touched a few keys, as if to confirm that it had been tuned. She noted he had a pianist’s fine long-fingered hands. He played a Beethoven sonata. Beautifully. From memory.

After he finished, while she and Neville clapped enthusiastically and the Castors clapped petulantly, he stood to offer her the bench.

“Oh no,” she said. “I certainly cannot play after that.”

“Music isn’t a competition.” He smirked. “Not like poetry.”

She laughed and tilted her head slightly to indicate the Castors, watching them. “Would you like to try the challenge again?”

He widened his eyes with mock horror. “Not for the world. Why don’t I play, and you sing?”

*

That night, after the Castors were gone, Camellia lay awake, listening to the silence. She was aware, very aware, of the major’s presence just down the hall. Was he listening to the same silence? In her head, she heard echoes of the sonata he’d played. Songs she had sung lingered on the tip of her tongue.

She wanted to hear something of his. A breath. A snore. A rustle of blankets. The drop of a boot on the floor. Anything. A connection. To prove to her he was still there, and that the evening had not been a dream.

Chapter Fourteen

Crispin did not sleep well. The devil. He always slept well—except when bedbugs like Lizzie’s were biting. His conscience bothered him during the day, not at night to keep him up. The only time he tossed and turned was when he was sick, and he was not sick. He was not. He’d had a random cramp; that was all.

He rose and washed. A peek out the window showed drizzle, putting a damper on his desire for a long walk. He donned his drawers, his shirt, then his uniform. In the colonel’s presence, he preferred to be a soldier-in-reserve rather an earl’s-second-son-with-no-occupation.

He stepped out of the guest chamber and walked quietly past Miss Harrington’s door. A capital lady. A poetess. A contralto. He found her as funny as Georgiana and as resilient as Vanessa. He rather wished the women could meet.

It was too early to be up and about, but that gave him liberty to eat breakfast in solitude. Oat porridge if Mrs. Clay would provide it. God. This was wearying. This constant fixation on what he might eat. And people’s reaction. As if he must either be malingering, mad, or courting attention. Even his beloved family skidded between skepticism, annoyance, and pity. There were times he wanted to stand up and shout, It’s not my fault!

Miss Harrington and Adam were the only two people who had ever managed to be helpful rather than irritating.

Adam, when they had first met, had been disinterestedly fascinated by the evidence of Crispin’s chronic ill health, to wit: his absurd thinness. He asked about it in such a matter-of-fact way that Crispin answered. And Adam had believed what Crispin confided about the bewildering array of symptoms he’d suffered at seemingly random intervals throughout his life. Just being believed had helped. Adam wanted to approach the problem systematically. He was convinced the condition could be managed if not cured—without leeches, cupping, purges, or laudanum.

Crispin was not cured. He was markedly improved, but not cured. Removing practically everything from his table had been difficult, but worse was adding things back. Especially after Adam had been released from parole and Crispin had been left to muddle through a course of trial and error on his own.

Now he was cursed to wonder things like: was that cramp in his gut from the bite of beef or the wine? Or was he imagining it because he’d dared to taste both?

As for Miss Harrington, she seemed to empathize. Moreover, she must have guessed that he disliked nothing so much as a small dinner party with strangers. Friends and family were used to him. At large events, no one paid attention to his plate. But it was impossible to hide when there were only five at the table. So Miss Harrington had arranged it so he could appear to be eating what everyone else ate.

Even so, dinner was excruciating. The Castors were an unpleasant couple. Maybe that was why he’d slept poorly. Lingering abhorrence.

He descended the stairs and made his way to the kitchen. It was warm from the heat of the stove, but with no lamps lit and the small window, it was dim. There he found Adam, eating what looked to be the remains of last night’s stew.

“Good morning, Major,” Adam said, standing up, then sitting back down to continue his meal. The man had adopted some British manners but not all. Crispin suspected he picked and chose.

“Good morning. Is Mrs. Clay about?”