Page 82 of One Wicked Secret
Olivia did not falter beneath his intense gaze. “You must wait and see, my lord, though you did yawn twice the last time you were in the audience.”
Lord Rothley covered his heart with his hand. “I confess, I find maudlin sentiment rather tedious. Not everyone finds the words ofHome, Sweet Homeso uplifting.”
“No. For some, home is nothing more than walls to contain one’s sorrow.” Olivia curtsied. “If you will excuse me, I must prepare for the recital.”
The marquess bowed and watched Olivia leave. He turned to Viscount Rutland, who seemed taken with Clara’s jewelled eye patch. “You were lucky to escape last time. Brace yourself for the worst hour of your life.”
The countess tapped Lord Rothley on the arm with her closed fan. “My ladies spend days rehearsing. Do them the courtesy of listening tonight.”
“Why? Will you not invite me again?”
“Quite the opposite. We’re practically family, so I’ll expect you to attend every event.”
The marquess raised his hands in mock surrender. “You drive a hard bargain, my lady. I shall be as attentive as a cat watching a birdcage.”
Elsa had the pleasure of sitting between Daniel and LordRothley. While her husband took advantage of the dim lighting to trace his fingers along her thigh, the marquess grumbled under his breath whenever anyone took to the stage.
Miss Pennywell recited Charlotte Smith’s sonnetTo Hope.
“Her tone is too heavy for a poem of that depth.”
Mrs Reagan played a lively tune on the pianoforte.
“It’s a piece more suited to the raucous atmosphere of a bordello than a refined music room,” the marquess complained.
Miss Beaumont earned his praise when she performed a card trick using sleight of hand. “Why the devil isn’t she married? Every cardsharp in town could use her skill.”
Then Olivia took to the stage, moving with quiet confidence. She did not seek attention yet commanded it with her poised stillness.
“Her hair, like autumn leaves, burns bright in shades of crimson and gold,” the marquess uttered, almost to himself.
“I’m afraid I don’t know that poem,” Elsa said.
“No, it’s one of my own creation.”
Olivia clasped her hands in front of her, cleared her throat and sangThe Last Rose of Summerby Thomas More.
“’Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.”
The marquess sat forward. Perhaps he was determined not to yawn. Perhaps he did not wish to disappoint the countess. But he never took his eyes off Olivia, not even for a second.
Olivia sang of decaying friendships, withered hearts and the pain of suffering the bleak world alone. According to Daniel, the marquess had endured all of those tragic scenarios.
“It’s as if the woman can see into my soul,” he complained, turning to Elsa. “Is she doing this on purpose? Is Miss Woolf mocking me? Is this part of the countess’ plan to drag me to the altar?”
“Not at all, my lord. Miss Woolf looks for the beauty in every tragedy. As she said only recently, ‘One cannot appreciate light without spending time in the darkness’.”
The marquess fell silent before saying, “Miss Woolf reads Plato?”
“Miss Woolf reads many things in her quest for answers.”
“Answers to what exactly?”
