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“Yes.”
“In that case, what about a ballad? If you can find something suitable, I’ll sing with you.”
She blinked, but she certainly wasn’t about to turn away such an offer. “Baritone?”
He nodded.
She’d seen something in the pile; she hunted, found the sheet, and drew it free. “What about this? Two parts—first in alternate verses, then combined.”
He scanned the sheet, then nodded. “I remember it.”
“Excellent.”
He took the other sheets from her; while he set them aside, she adjusted the seat, then settled on it. As she set their selected piece on the stand, Maria bustled up, her face wreathed in smiles.
Phoebe smiled and made her even happier. “Paignton and I are going to perform a ballad.”
Maria glowed. She clapped in delight. “How wonderful!” She turned to Deverell, who had taken up his pos
ition by Phoebe’s right shoulder. “Thank you, my lord. This is quite the most perfect way to encourage the other gentlemen, and the other young ladies, too, to get into the spirit of things.”
Turning, she clapped loudly, calling the gathering to order, then announced them, and that they had elected to entertain the group with a ballad.
Cynically amused, Phoebe placed her fingers on the keys. “I’m not normally cast as an example to be followed.”
She looked up at Deverell. He met her eyes and dryly replied, “I imagine not.”
He understood what she meant, yet there was something in his tone, in his green eyes…then he nodded at the pianoforte. “When you’re ready.”
She turned back to the instrument and the music.
What followed was unlike any performance she’d given before. The notes flowed from her fingers as they always did, all but effortlessly, perfectly gauged in both rhythm and force; her voice rose, an unusually sweet contralto, strong enough to fill the room yet never strident. She sang the first verse alone, but even then she felt a difference, a subtle reshaping of her senses and thus how she delivered the notes and lyrics, because he stood so near.
And then he sang, and she lost all touch with the room in which they stood, forgot that there were others watching. His voice, effortlessly strong yet amazingly controlled, perfectly in tune, wove a web of sound around her—a web that only grew stronger, more mesmerizing, when she added her voice to his.
It was no contest, but a sensual interweaving; her voice rose when his fell and vice versa, first one dominating, then the other, not so much testing each other’s strengths as discovering how to interact, how to support, how to elicit the best from each other—the most from each other.
Never before had she participated in such an exchange, where her partner’s voice stretched hers, and hers demanded more from his.
The ballad had twelve verses. The music and their voices led them on, deeper into the ever twining harmony, until at the last they reached the final note—two perfectly held tones riding over two chords creating a single, perfectly blended sound.
It ended, died, and she returned to the world. To that instant of complete silence that follows a great performance, when the listeners have to draw breath and blink before they can applaud.
They did applaud. She smiled, acknowledged the accolades with a gracious nod, then allowed Deverell to take her hand and draw her to her feet.
They moved away so the next young lady, looking decidedly nervous, could take her place at the instrument. Deverell led her to the side of the room, where Audrey and Edith, smiling delightedly, were settled on a chaise.
“Lovely.” Edith beamed.
Audrey simply looked smug.
Standing beside the chaise, they turned to face the room. Deverell spoke softly. “I enjoyed that.”
“So did I.” She glanced up at his face. “I admit I didn’t expect it of you. Such talent isn’t all that common.”
He met her gaze; his lips curved. “One of the benefits of spending so much time in Parisian salons.”
“Ah.” She looked back at the pianoforte as the next young lady started to play.
