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“But she doesn’t like to be the center of attention. It was badly done of you, West. She didn’t wish to play. You’ll have to go and apologize.”
“Yes, go and apologize this instant,” Blanche said. “Bring back our smiling Miss Beaton. We want to celebrate with her.”
“I’ll find her. We’ll all celebrate later. I brought home a bottle of Rosehill Park sparkling wine to cheer you with.”
He rushed away. He hadn’t liked the man’s insistence on speaking with Viola when she clearly didn’t wish to have anything to do with him. And what had he been mistaken about?
West rushed from the room, catching the faint scent of lavender in the air and following it.
Chapter Nineteen
This was the price to pay when she overstepped her bounds, when she took center stage, Viola thought as she rushed through the garden toward the dower house.
She never should have played. Blast West for insisting that she play.
She could have refused. Why hadn’t she?
A hidden streak of vanity had made her take the stage. When her fingers touched the keys she’d forgotten about the audience and played directly for West. Instead of the Bach she’d selected, she’d played the sonata she’d written about him years ago. The one about moonlight and kisses. She’d poured her doomed love and misplaced longing into the performance, saying with music the words she could never say to him.
Love me. As I love you.
She’d exposed herself. Exposed her heart. And it was just as she’d feared. Someone in the audience had guessed her secret. She’d put him off, pretended ignorance, but he’d seen right through her, insisting that it must be she who’d composed Mr. Beam’s symphony.
“Viola!” West’s low voice calling for her.
He’d followed her into the garden and easily caught up with her short gait.
“There you are,” he said. “You ran off before everyone could congratulate you.”
He looked delicious enough to eat in a cutaway black coat and white cravat, his jaw freshly shaved and his eyes filled with concern.
“This is the second time you’ve run out of a room without saying goodbye in as many days. What’s the matter?”
She blinked away sudden tears. “Nothing. I—I have to go back. My father’s nearly finished with the symphony and I must be there to help.”
In reality her father had told her in no uncertain terms that he wanted to be alone. The frenzy of creation had him by the throat and all he needed right now was to be given the perfect creative conditions—which he had in the dower house—and to be left alone.
“He’ll be all right for a few more minutes,” West said. “My sisters are asking for you. They want to celebrate the success of the musicale.”
“Have the guests departed?”
“It’s only family left. And I have a bottle of sparkling wine made by your friend, Lady Henrietta Prince.”
She smiled, though she felt more like crying. “Very well. I’ll have a sip.” She turned back toward the house.
“Wait, I want to know why you ran away. Who was that man?”
“Mr. Jonathan Atwater, of Atwater and Herrick,a publishing house. Mr. Atwater is also a member of the Royal Society of Musicians.”
“He didn’t threaten you in any way?”
“No, no, nothing like that. He was a very kind gentleman. He was quizzing me about similarities between the sonata I played tonight and a movement of a symphonic work entered into a competition hosted by the Royal Society under the name of Mr. Vincent Beam.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
The secret was probably out now. She couldn’t hide it anymore. “I’m Mr. Beam.”
“Pardon?”
