Page 46 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

She gave him a long look. “I do. As I believe I told you last time we spoke.”

Lady Barrington sucked in her breath, audibly. Trentham had a sudden urge to laugh. He stifled it.

“Ah, yes. Though you might have changed your mind. Ladies sometimes do.”

She scowled. “And men never do?”

He tried a smile. “We do. But we don’t like to admit it. So we forge on ahead with our ill-made decisions.”

She started, eyes flickering wider to study him a moment. He hadn’t consciously been referring to his courtship of her, but the statement was apt enough to cause a blush to spread over her cheeks. Before he could regret his words, she recovered.

“That’s stupid.”

He laughed. “Yes, it is. May I ask what you’re reading?”

“A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.”

Why wasn’t he surprised? Again, Trentham heard Lady Barrington make a disapproving noise. To keep the conversation going, he said, “Wollstonecraft.”

“You’ve read it?” she asked, pushing her spectacles higher on her nose. He wasn’t sure if she was giving him the benefit of the doubt or mocking him.

“No. But I’ve read her daughter’s Frankenstein.”

The girl frowned again and made no reply. He did not generally find conversation painful, but after each requisite twenty minutes with Lady Elizabeth, he always felt he’d gone six rounds in a boxing ring.

The marchioness said, “Why don’t you play a little something for His Grace?” She tilted her head to indicate the piano on the far side of the room.

Lady Elizabeth said, “I’d rather not, Mama.”

“Why don’t I play then?” Trentham ignored Lady Barrington’s indignation and her daughter’s confusion. A duke might sing a duet with a lady if his voice was good, or turn pages for her while she demonstrated her accomplishments, but to play the piano himself in a courtship setting was decidedly odd. Thank goodness there was no harp in the room, or he might have been tempted to truly confound them. He rose and took himself to the instrument. It would pass a good part of his twenty minutes and then he could leave.

The polished surface of the piano was dull with age and the keys were yellowed. He tried a few chords and was relieved to find it in tune.

After settling himself on the bench and giving his fingers a stretch, he began a piece he knew by heart, one that sounded more difficult than it was: several minutes of a Brahms sonata. The Barrington ladies listened in polite silence, then rewarded him with light applause. He managed not to pull out his watch to see how long until he could go.

At the same moment, Charles returned carrying a tray with tea and cakes of some sort. The visit was just getting started.

Trentham removed to the davenport, accepted a cup, drew a breath, and tried again. “Do you enjoy the opera, Lady Elizabeth?” It was like quizzing his nephews when they were schoolboys. And what is your favorite subject? Fun for no one.

“I do.”

“Perhaps you and your mother would like to join me in my box tomorrow night at The Gaiety? The Magic Flute? The soprano playing Pamina, Adriana Tebaldi, is supposed to be excellent.”

“I’ve seen it,” she said flatly. “Papa took me.”

One really had to admire such brazen rudeness. Lady Barrington was practically panting with rage.

“Just as well.” He smiled. He set his cup on the table beside her book. “I despise the opera.”

“You do?” Her skepticism shone through her narrowed eyes. “But you said last time that you enjoyed the theater. And you’re musical. You’re Mr. Cameron’s patron.”

For better or worse, he was. He’d just displayed the peak of his talent, and her reason for believing him musical was that he was Eli’s patron. Ah, well. “Yes, but just because two things are separately wonderful doesn’t mean they will be wonderful combined. Why, look at chocolate and raspberries!”

A quick stutter of laughter passed her lips before she clamped it back. “You can’t mean you don’t like chocolate and raspberries.”

“Separately I do. What about you? Surely there is some combination of favorites that you find revolting.”

For a moment she frowned, turning her head, and he thought he’d lost her. Another conversational gambit dropping into the bottomless pit of her determined resistance. But then he noted the puckering of her forehead. She was thinking.