Page 58 of The Good Girl's Guide to Rakes
“Because the universe thrives on irony.” Yet he covered her hand with his own, wishing he trulycouldkiss her. “Now it’s my turn to thank you.”
“You deserve better,” she insisted, color high on her cheeks. “We both do.”
They reached the capacious saloon, at the center of which stood a lovely pianoforte, currently unoccupied, as well as three chairs and music stands placed close to the large instrument. Seats were arranged in a semicircle around the instrument, but the majority of them were taken, so Kieran guided Celeste toward the back of the chamber to stand with other attendees. When a footman passed by carrying a tray bearing glasses of wine, Kieran didn’t hesitate to grab two. Celeste, however, politely waved away his offer of a beverage.
He’d have to drink both. Alas. What a horrendous predicament. After finishing one glass and handing it to another servant, he took his time with the second.
His gaze roved over the audience as he sipped surprisingly fine burgundy, finding some familiar faces and lesser-known ones. It was a decent mix of male and female guests, all of them supremely distinguished as they gossiped and fannedthemselves, waiting for the music to begin. Several times, Celeste smiled in recognition at a person, or murmured a greeting to someone walking past, making certain to introduce him in the process.
“At the conclusion of the music,” she said to him after another introduction, “I’ll take you to some of the young, unmarried ladies.”
The wine soured in his stomach. Naturally, the whole purpose of coming to this event was to present him to suitable women he might be able to court. Yet none of them would be half as fascinating as Celeste. None would have her zest for living, or possess her incisive and clever mind, or burn to create real change in the world.
Polite clapping sounded as four musicians took their places in the middle of the room. They remained standing as Lord Hempnall stood in front of the guests, wearing the expression of a man who believed himself to be the height of generosity.
“Welcome, welcome,” the older man said, waving for the attendees to quiet their applause. “Today’s program was selected by myself, and I’m sure you will find it delightful. Without further delay, let us begin.” He shot a meaningful look at the pianist, who lifted his hands in preparation.
Once Lord Hempnall had deigned to remove himself from everyone’s vision, the recital itself began.
Kieran attended the theater and opera often. In those venues, his focus remained on the activity in the pit or the boxes, and he seldom paid much heed to the performances, let alone the instrumental accompaniment. Here, however, nothing distracted him from the music itself.
His knowledge of specific pieces was limited to mostly bawdy tunes or tavern songs, so when a lyrical, lilting tune poured forth from the quartet, he was wholly unprepared. The work began with a kind of martial air, then shifted into something flowing and soft. There was an aching tenderness in it, as though striving to reach the source of its happiness. It evoked sunlight and shadow, a heart longing for recognition—and it reverberated deep within him.
Something damp trailed down his cheek. He reached up to brush it away, and discovered his fingers wet.
Dear God, he was weeping.
It was as though the composer had transcribed Kieran’s own hidden self, the part of him that he’d once guilelessly displayed to the world. The part that had impelled him to write poems, which he’d foolishly shown his parents, proud of his work.
Those poems had been crumpled up and tossed to the floor. When Kieran had wept at their loss, his father had shaken him.Men don’t cry, the earl had spat, and his mother had sent him to his room to collect himself.
Kieran’s gaze sought out his mother and brother. Thankfully, they were seated and couldn’t watch him now, silently crying in the middle of a music recital.
He glanced at Celeste, and, thank Christ, she didn’t seem to notice that he’d been moved to tears. Lord knew he did not want anyone observing what a tenderhearted fool he was beneath his rake’s polish.
Discreetly, he wiped at his cheeks.
That motion seemed to catch Celeste’s attention. She glanced curiously at him—so he acted quickly.
Leaning closer to her, he whispered in time to the flute player’s notes, “Listen to me play / What a fine chap I am / Bleating on my pipe / Like a sickly lamb.”
She snorted, causing a seated dowager to shoot Celeste a glare. In turn, Celeste glowered at Kieran—though mischief danced in her eyes.
“Here I saw on my fiddle so nice,” he continued softly, matching the violin player’s melody. “Hee haw hee haw. I need to scratch / ’Cause I’m covered in lice.”
Celeste clapped her hand over her lips but a titter escaped between her fingers.
“Shh!” the dowager hissed.
In response, Celeste removed her hand from her mouth and offered the older woman an apologetic smile. The dowager sniffed and turned back to the musicians.
“Stop,” Celeste whispered urgently to Kieran. “Or you’ll get us both thrown out, and undo all my hard work.”
“A thousand most heartfelt apologies, miss.” But he caught the impish humor sparkling in her gaze, and let out a noiseless exhale. She didn’t suspect that he’d been overcome with emotion. His distractions had worked. He was safe.
“Where did you hear those rhymes?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Made them up just now.”
