Page 35 of A Symphony for the Earl

“But I should not have repeated it,” Fiona said unhappily.

“Tell him that,” she urged. “Richard never carries a grudge. But I’ve wondered why you two always seem at odds.”

“I suppose I’ve enjoyed too much freedom in my life.” Fiona shrugged. “In comparison, your brother’s dictates seem overpowering.” Secretly, she was convinced he enjoyed his position of power and objected to any sign of independence on her part.

“You could do worse in a guardian, I promise. However, I won’t speak of it again. Let me dress first and then send Betty to you. We usually leave at about nine thirty; the doors close at eleven o’clock. Are you nervous about tonight?”

“I fear dancing badly more than anything else. I hope no one will notice me in the crowd.”

“There is little chance of that. You are too beautiful not to be noticed. Just sit out every other dance, and only accept a waltz from Richard, or perhaps Denys,” she advised.

“Why are there so many unspoken rules of behavior and restrictions?” Fiona grumbled. “Someone needs to write a manual.”

“Richard and I will guide you, depend upon it. I enjoy your piano playing so much, Fiona, and I know Richard is pleased to have music in the house again. Would you be willing to perform at a soirée or musical gathering?”

“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t play sedate parlor pieces if I did. The music that moves me is probably not suitable for a woman by the standards of the ton.”

“Oh, bother that. Your playing is exquisite.”

“Why did your brother lose interest in the piano?”

Valentina’s expression grew sad. “Our father always ridiculed Richard’s musical talent, demanding he ride or shoot instead. Then we had to sell a great many things to pay Father’s debts, and the piano was the first. I was very young, but I remember that day and how upset Richard became. He never mentioned music afterward.”

Fiona took her book and walked upstairs to her room, digesting what she had just learned about the earl.

Richard seethed with anger as he strode to his chamber, tossing gloves and hat carelessly on the bed as John hovered nearby. He changed in silence and handed his valet the discarded clothes. Once attired in dress breeches and a newly pressed cambric shirt, Richard sat down at his dressing table with a freshly starched cravat.

“Shall I put out the black or the navy coat, my lord?” John asked as the crumpled cravat landed on the floor. Richard took a fresh one and focused on the mirror.

“Pick one. It does not matter to me.” He ignored the valet’s startled look and finished tying his cravat á la Parisienne. It was not the best version he had ever completed and for once, he did not give a damn about the color of his coat.

How on earth did he let Fiona Rafferty get under his skin? Her remark about Eleanor Davenport was common knowledge, but to say it aloud was beyond the pale. And worse, his annoying ward sat a horse as if she was born on one, leaving him preoccupied with her slender waist and sweetly curved derriere.

Her sudden interest in William Denton provoked a wave of anger he could not explain. Although it was a perfectly sensible solution to his problems, Fiona would not marry Sir William. Why, he had no idea—but he was determined to see that it never happened. And then to argue publicly and challenge his decision. Neither his mother nor his sisters ever had the temerity to question his judgment. Well, perhaps that was not entirely true, but close.

Eleanor’s subtle barbs and Fellingham’s outrageous flirting had infuriated him even more than Fiona’s impossible behavior. All in all, the ride had been a disaster.

He impatiently waved away John’s suggestions as to his waistcoat and picked the first one at hand, then shrugged into the coat held by the valet. Thanking him gruffly, he took the formal gloves offered to him and left the room much in the same manner he had entered it.

It was close to nine before Betty came to Fiona’s room, and she apologized profusely for keeping her waiting.

“I am so sorry, miss, but Miss Valentina’s hair was very challenging and took far longer than I had expected.”

“She probably changed the style more than once, didn’t she, Betty?”

The maid chuckled and pulled out the spindled chair from the dressing table. Fiona unbuttoned her dressing gown and sat obediently. She had already dressed in the thin silk chemisette laid out for her and had added ivory stockings and garters.

By the time Betty finished fashioning Fiona’s curls into an intricate topknot with numerous braids and accents of silver tissue, the clock showed a quarter to ten.

She gingerly stepped into the new dress, pulling her arms through as Betty adjusted it and began to button the back.

“Are you sure I don’t need a corset or a full chemise?” She went to the mirror, turning this way and that. The short chemise included with the gown came only to her thighs and there was no boning anywhere to be found, just the barest support for breasts and waist.

“Oh, no, Miss Fiona, that would spoil the lines to be sure.”

The elegant satin dress was pale turquoise and clung tenaciously to her lithe figure. A silver gauze overskirt hung with tiny sparkling stars meant to lend modesty, but its transparency did little to disguise anything.

After fastening her earrings and adding a dab of pomade to her lips, she thanked Betty and hurried to the stairs. She paused on the landing to pull on a pair of elbow-length gloves and heard Lady Amelia’s little gasp of surprise echo in the atrium. Valentina and the earl looked up from their conversation.