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“I understand completely, Lord Ashworth, and would expect nothing less.”
The marquess did not appear convinced. “I shan’t keep you long, so you may go about this so-called wooing. I wanted to inform you, however, that the marriage contracts are drawn up. If you haven’t heard this from Heslop yet, you may presume it is because you have been off in the countryside doing who knows what. Don’t be surprised to hear from him tomorrow.”
“Thank you, your lordship. For the record, I was seeing to matters at Farleigh Manor that needed my personal attention.”
“As you say. Well, that is something, at least.” The marquess gestured with his head toward a stack of documents atop his desk. “The marriage contracts are there, awaiting our signatures. We could sign them today and have it done . . .” He paused, drumming his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair. “However, I am not pleased at your absences this past week, even if you claim to have had good reason. I have watched my daughter closely, you see, and she has been unhappy. She would never say so, but as her father, I can tell that this is the case. I will not elaborate on it further, for that is for you as her future husband”—he nearly spat the words—“to discover for yourself. And I expect you to do so to my satisfaction.” He leaned forward and said in a low, threatening tone, “For, you see, Viscount Farleigh, I will not put my signature to these marriage contracts until I am thoroughly convinced Louisa is willing to subject herself to this vowel you hold over her. Do we understand each other?”
Don’t let him get a read on you. “Clearly, your lordship.”
“Excellent.” The marquess stood, indicating that he had said what he’d intended to say to William and now wished for the conversation to be done.
William rose to his feet, bowed formally, and took his leave.
* * *
Louisa had excused herself from sitting with Mama in the drawing room and had wandered into the music room, something she seemed to have done a lot over the past week or two. Not because she was what anyone would call a musical proficient but because reading the notes gave her something to concentrate on beyond her present concerns, and the melodies soothed her in spite of the occasional wrong note or two or several.
She had asked her brothers to learn what they could about William, so she should hardly have been surprised when they’d dragged him off to play billiards, but she had been nonetheless. She’d expected them to be a bit more covert about the whole business. She should have known better.
Her fingers stumbled over a passage in the Mozart sonata she was attempting to play. She stopped and worked out an agreeable fingering and then played the passage several times until her fingers began to go where she willed them. Herr Mozart’s music was a bit more challenging than the pieces she usually attempted to master, but today, she needed something that required her complete concentration.
Except she wasn’t concentrating on the sonata at all. She was reminding herself of all the reasons she needed to concentrate on something else—which meant she was really concentrating on all the reasons why she needed to concentrate on something else.
Goodness, she was babbling inside her own head now. She might well go mad if she wasn’t careful.
The sound of the door shutting behind her made her jump. She twisted around on the piano bench to see who it was, hoping it was William come to spend time with her at last.
It was. He stood silently by the door, his hands behind him. “May I come in?” he asked.
“It looks to me as if you already have,” she said.
“Touché,” he replied. He didn’t move any farther into the room, however. “Will you play for me?” he asked.
“Play for you?” she asked stupidly. She’d performed piano pieces at parties before—what young lady of quality wasn’t required to do such a thing, or something similar?—but William asking for a private performance flustered her.
It was silly, she told herself.
“I would appreciate it above all things,” he said.
She took a deep breath and ordered her fingers not to tremble. “Very well, but not the Mozart.” She wouldn’t be able to hit a single correct note in the passage she’d just practiced with William standing by listening to her. She set it aside and thumbed through the small stack of music on the music stand, choosing a more tranquil—in other words, slow—movement from a Bach suite.
He crossed the room quietly after she began to play. She could hear his steps and see him out of the corner of her eye as he seated himself in a chair not far away. And then she turned her attention to the music. He, she noticed after she finished the piece, sat without moving, his eyes closed, so she chose another piece and played it and then another.
After the fourth piece of music, she stopped, folded her hands in her lap, and watched him. He gradually opened his eyes. They were dark and soulful and, Louisa realized with a start, utterly bleak. And then he blinked, and the window into his soul closed once again.
But Louisa had seen what she’d seen.
“Thank you,” he said.
“May I ask you a question?” she asked.
“You may.”
“Will you tell me more about the tree? The tree in the painting you gave me?”
“It’s a tree at Farleigh Manor that I painted from memory while at Oxford.”
“You painted it?” she asked, surprised by this new revelation. She’d not been able to decipher the signature on the canvas. “You’re a painter?”
