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Prologue
Lady Iris Gardenbrook was enraptured.
There was no other word for it.
Oh, not by the singing, which was, even if one were to be polite about it, rather painful, but by the skill of the pianist who accompanied it. She ignored the singer, and focussed every part of her mind on the notes of the pianoforte, on the exquisite skill of the man who played.
A man she had never met before. Their hostess had made a passing comment about Lord Greenleigh having recently completed mourning, so it was reasonable that she had neither met him, nor really heard anything of him. But now… she desperately hoped that her brother knew him, and could provide an introduction.
She knew this piece, knew it well, and knew just how difficult it was to play well. Her eyes were locked to Lord Greenleigh – which was not a hardship, for he was a well-made man and more than passingly handsome – and the precise and elegant movements of his hands on the keys.
She had long despaired of ever meeting a gentleman who cared for music even half as much as she did, but now, hope flared within her. Surely, he could not have such skill unless he was truly passionate about music?
Beside her, her sister Violet was whispering with Lord Merryfield, but Iris ignored them, ignored everything. Slowly, inexorably, as the piece went on, his exquisite playing seduced her, and by the end of it, she knew that she was in love, that this was the man she wanted.
Which was beyond presumptuous of her, given that she had no idea what his title was, what his family were like, even whether he was already married. She knew it was foolish, but yet her heart cried out, and her soul declared that this was the man. Which meant that she would simply have to discover everything she could about him, and arrange an introduction at the earliest opportunity.
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Leon Atherton, Marquess of Greenleigh, wondered, for the thousandth time, if this was wise, even as he settled at the rather beautiful pianoforte in Lady Ormondston’s parlour. There had been a flurry of whispers go around the room when it had been announced that he would play, and he knew that many of the ton would now consider it inappropriate for him to play in public, now that he bore the title.
Yet he could not have refused. Lady Ormondston was an old friend of his mother’s, and his mother would not have forgiven him had he said no. He would not, by any action of his, add further unhappiness to his mother’s life.
So, as he always did, he allowed the music to carry him away, to free him from the exigencies of life, and from the knowledge of the spectre that stalked his family, that placed him in an impossible position, every day. Let them whisper if they liked, he would not deny himself this one consolation – and perhaps some of those listening might even enjoy his performance – if they could manage to ignore the somewhat terrible singing of his hostess’ daughter, that was.
As the piece drew to a close, he looked up, and allowed his eyes to actually take in the audience. They were quiet, and there was a moment of true silence as the last note died away, the silence of actual appreciation.
Then they offered polite applause.
He rose, turned to leave the performance area, and found his attention caught by a young woman who watched him intently. She was seated beside another who looked quite like her – her sister, he suspected. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, it was as if no one else existed, so intense was her gaze. Her eyes were blue – the blue of the sky on a perfect summer day - and the errant thought came to him then that he was glad they were not green.
He wondered what she saw, why she regarded him so intently. Not that it mattered – he could not, ever, allow himself the luxury of a relationship – well, at least not for many years to come, not until after… He did not complete the thought. He gave the young woman the tiniest nod of acknowledgement, and forced himself to move, to leave the parlour. Perhaps a glass of punch would help him resist the temptation to wish for things he should not desire.
By the time the harpist had finished, and all of Lady Ormondston’s guests joined him near the refreshment tables, he was more settled.
Until, across the crowded room, he saw her watching him. His heart ached – if only… but there was nothing he could do but allow time to solve his problem, and pray that it did so soon. For if it did not, if God was cruel, then he might never marry, never have the companionship of anyone, anything, except music.
He should not think like that, should not wish for that resolution, yet he did. It was unchristian to do so, and yet the thought would not leave him, ever.
He refilled his glass, and slipped out onto the terrace, even though the October air was cold – perhaps the chill would shock him back to his senses.
Chapter One
Iris had been hoping for this, from the moment that the pianoforte had been moved into the ballroom, as part of the preparations for her sister Violet’s wedding. She stood quietly, hardly daring to breathe as she watched Lord Greenleigh cross the room, and settle onto the bench before the pianoforte. The small orchestra had taken a break from playing and the instruments all sat, waiting for their return.
She had not known if this would happen, but she had desperately prayed that it might, that the sight of their beautiful instrument would be enough to tempt him. It was nearly three months since she had first heard him play, had first seen him at Lady Ormondston’s musicale, and in that three months, she had managed to achieve an introduction, dance with him once, and have precisely three conversations with him.
She remembered every second of each of those occasions in exquisite, frustrating detail.
When they had conversed, they had spoken only of music.
It was as if nothing else existed in his life – which did not, entirely, worry Iris, for if she had the choice almost nothing but music would exist in her life either. But it was unusual, and it made him all the more intriguing.
Even her mother seemed to know little of him, and her mother was close friends with most of the biggest gossips of the ton. That did not matter – what mattered was that he was unmarried, willing at least to occasionally talk to her, and he played a pianoforte with masterful skill. She was determined, and stubborn, and capable of patience, much though her sisters and brother might have disputed that claim.
She hoped that she was right in believing that he at least liked her, for occasionally when they had spoken she had seen a warmth in his expression, which seemed to surpass that which might be expected from a mere acquaintance. But perhaps that was only wishful thinking on her part. He began to play, and her heart flipped over in her chest. She knew this piece, knew it so well that she could play it without needing the sheet music, without needing to even see the keys – it was embedded in her soul as few other pieces of music were. And it was beautifully appropriate as a thing to play at her sister’s wedding breakfast.
She moved, slowly and quietly, around the edge of the room, until she stood not all that far from where he played. He was lost in the music she could tell, his gaze unfocussed, seeing something no one else saw as his hands moved fluidly.
