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‘Yes,’ she admitted warily. ‘But my voice is quite untrained and I have hardly sung for so long—’ Not since before Mama’s illness when she had sat with Mama and Rosalind, their voices mingling, all their worries forgotten in the music. Mama had a beautiful voice, Rosalind one almost as good. Her own performance she found hard to judge.
‘Try now,’ Lady Narborough urged.
Nell came to her feet. It seemed churlish not to join in the harmless entertainment. ‘Very well, but I do not answer for the results; I may set the hounds howling.’
There was a pile of song sheets on the piano. Verity spread them out for her as Nell bit her lip, scanning them for something simple and familiar. ‘This one.’ She handed the music to Honoria, who propped it on the stand and played the introductory bars. Nell took a deep breath, fixed her eyes on a still life on the far wall, and began to sing.
Early one morning, just as the sun was rising,
I heard a maiden sing in the valley below.
Oh never leave me
Do not deceive me
How could you use
A poor maiden so?
Remember the vows that you made to your Mary?
Remember the bower where you vowed to be true?
Oh never leave me…
And this time Honoria and Verity joined in the chorus, falling silent again as Nell picked up the maiden’s lament. When the last chorus was sung and the last note died away, Lady Narborough applauded, exclaiming in delight.
But as Nell looked round the room, she saw the earl was staring at her, as though he was not seeing her at all, but something else very far away. Marcus glanced sharply from his father to her.
‘Father?’
‘Charming, Miss Latham, charming,’ the earl said at last, seeming to emerge from a trance. ‘You remind me of…times long ago.’ He got to his feet and turned to his wife. ‘You’ll excuse me, my dear. I think I will retire.’
Nell endured Marcus’s speculative stare for another ten minutes before confessing, ‘I am quite exhausted from my ride. I hope you will excuse me?’
Times long ago, Nell thought, climbing the stairs. It had been one of her mother’s favourite tunes. Was her voice like enough to Mama’s for it to stir a memory in Lord Narborough’s mind, or was she simply refining too much upon the actions of a tired man who was not in good health?
But Marcus was not tired or ill. Why could he not believe her innocent of harm or bad intentions? Somehow his suspicions were becoming more than worrying; they were hurtful. She wanted him to like her, to trust her, she realized. And some foolish, unrealistic part of her that still clung to fantasy and to optimism wanted more from him, wanted…love.
The candle in her hand shook so hard that the flame guttered and went out. Nell stood on the darkened landing and forced herself to confront that word. It seemed she was in danger of losing her heart to Marcus Carlow, and one did not get more foolish than that.
I am the penniless daughter of an executed, disgraced man. I might as well long for the man in the moon. Only the man in the moon was infinitely far away, not so close that she could touch him, not so near that he could kiss her with casual arrogance and dissolve every iota of sense and self-restraint she possessed. The man in the moon had not shared her bed so that she knew what he looked like fresh from sleep, the shadow of his morning beard on his lean cheeks.
She could not tell them who she was, she realized. Not because she feared their anger or their retribution, but because she could not bear to see Marcus’s face when he found out that she was deceiving him, could not face that final rejection.
Chapter Twelve
January 17
Twelve days since her world had turned on its head, less than a fortnight since she had first seen Marcus Carlow and lost her heart. Nell smiled at Trevor, who was adjusting the perpetual calendar on the hall table as she came out of the breakfast parlour, wondering at her own composure.
Why was her inner turmoil not showing on her face? Somehow it was possible to function without everyone pointing a finger at her, exclaiming that she was a presumptuous, foolish, infatuated woman who had no business even dreaming of such a man as the Viscount Stanegate returning her feelings.
‘Good morning, Miss Latham. The frost’s heavier this morning,’ the footman observed, straightening the calendar and the silver salver. ‘Very cold if you were thinking of a walk this—’ The sound of horses outside sent him hurrying to the door. ‘Excuse me, Miss Latham.’
‘Who is it?’ Honoria, her inevitable fashion journal in hand, emerged from the parlour behind Nell, effectively cutting off the retreat she was contemplating. The Carlows might disregard the fact that they were entertaining a milliner, but they would hardly wish to introduce her to their acquaintances.
‘I don’t know,’ she began as Trevor opened the door for a bundled figure that, as it shed its voluminous carriage coat, was revealed as a slim, elegant man in his late forties.
