Page 68 of A Symphony for the Earl

A Question Is Asked…

Two days later, Richard stood in his study and surveyed the meticulous stacks of documents on his mahogany desk. His new secretary was a nephew of Falworth’s, previously employed as a junior clerk to a wealthy merchant. In the space of two and a half days, the young man had taken care of minor bills, endless correspondence, and an impressive pile of legal papers.

Baskets of elegantly addressed vellum lay outside the door, ready for delivery—pale-blue envelopes for the betrothal ball less than three weeks from now and cream for the wedding seven days later.

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed half past two. After being closeted with his secretary most of the day, he craved physical activity, but the day was overcast and damp. Riding didn’t appeal, nor did a drive in his curricle. He contemplated some faro at White’s, but any serious card games were unlikely this early in the afternoon.

He had scarcely seen Fiona amid the flurry of preparations that swept the household. The ladies of the house were dressing to attend tea at Lady Jersey’s house in Kensington, followed by a small party hosted by Mrs. Castlereagh.

Restless and a trifle bored, Richard debated a visit to Debenhams. Maxwell was tailoring a black superfine wool coat and embroidered waistcoat for the wedding, and he needed a new top hat. Perhaps afterward he would make a stop at Rundell and Bridge to purchase some jewelry for his fiancée. If Fiona refused his gift, her fiery temper was an antidote to any inertia.

Amused at the thought, he ordered the carriage and went to find Hansen, asking the majordomo to convey a message to Lady Amelia that he was going out and would most likely take supper before returning.

Twenty minutes later, Jerome waited at the curb with the horses.

“Will you be drivin’ ’em, Your Lordship, or shall I?”

“You may take the reins, Jerome. The first stop shall be Fleet Street, then we will go to Cavendish Square.” The tiger leaped nimbly onto the high perch seat and once Richard settled in the back, turned the phaeton south.

After he finished his business and dined at his club, Richard returned to Merrick House close to seven o’clock. Entering, he glanced about for Hansen, then remembered he had given the majordomo the night off. The doorman greeted him, and he handed over the packages, removing his hat and gloves, when the faint sound of the piano drifted down the hallway.

He had expected to find an empty house; it was odd the ladies would be home so early from the evening’s festivities. But when he entered the music room, Fiona was the sole occupant. She sat at the piano, studying the sheet music and glanced up briefly, frowning at the interruption. After repeating a passage several times, she lifted her hands from the keys with an impatient shake of her head.

“A difficult piece?” he asked, bending to inspect the sheet music. “Ah, Mozart.”

The subtle perfume of lilies of the valley wafted from her skin. He now associated the scent with her, and even a suggestion of it caused his pulse to quicken.

“Yes. I just can’t master the counterpoint. This particular sonata has always eluded me. Especially the second movement, where the suspensions and dissonances are so subtle.”

“I am certainly no expert, but I would enjoy hearing the piece in its entirety. Perhaps I may offer some insight.” Her upswept coiffure exposed the delicate nape of her neck, and he had a strong desire to kiss the ivory curve. “How is it that you did not attend the party at the Castlereaghs’?”

“After hours of fittings and measurements, I wasn’t much in the mood for a party. I came home to practice.”

“And is Madame Brigitte well? Are you satisfied with her suggestions?”

“Oh, yes. She had some lovely fabrics just in from Paris. Lord Richard—”

“Richard.”

“Richard.” She said it hesitantly and his blood stirred again. “Thank you for your generosity. I know at times I may have seemed…well…ungrateful.”

“Never say so, Fiona,” he murmured.

“Are you teasing me? You know I am trying to apologize. Why I even bother—”

“There is no need to do so. I understand your reluctance to accept my gifts and your wish to remain independent. But please allow me the pleasure of giving you beautiful things. It’s customary for the bride to have a trousseau.”

“Richard…about the wedding…”

“Surely you are not going to refuse me again?” He raised an eyebrow. “Have you thought of the damage another rejection will do to my self-esteem?”

She hid a smile, trying to remain stern. “Now you are just being absurd. I just want to ask if you’re positive you wish to go through with this. There must be some other way out of our predicament. I’ve no desire to trap you into marriage.”

“You are not trapping me, Fiona and I’m positive I wish to marry you. Until then, I offer amends.” He pulled the slender case from his pocket, which she regarded with a mixture of curiosity and stubbornness. “Consider it a wedding present,” he encouraged.

“But you have already given me so much…I can’t accept anything else.”

He found her disappointment promising. “Fiona, if I were a man of the middle class, what gifts might you expect from me? A new pair of gloves perhaps? Or a hat, if I could manage it?”