Page 39 of The Butterfly
“Pardon me,” he murmured, his affected accent as haughty as his face. “But I practically stepped on this a moment ago and thought it might belong to you.”
He raised one gloved hand, revealing that it held her beaded silk reticule. Raising her arm, she found that the string had snapped completely.
“Goodness,” she said, reaching out to accept it from him. “I am not certain how that happened!”
“Looks as if the string has frayed,” he remarked, reaching out to grasp her wrist and inspecting the broken cord.
“Th-thank you for returning it to me.”
His boldness took her aback, but she had the devil of a time pulling her arm away, or finding some way to demur. In a transition so smooth she’d hardly registered it until it had happened, he’d turned her hand over and lifted it, pressing his lips to her knuckles.
“Lord Bertram Fairchild,” he murmured, still hovering over her hand as he glanced expectantly up at her.
“L-Lady Olivia Goodall. How do you do?”
“Quite well at the moment,” he said, finally releasing her hand. “Though lacking for dance partners having arrived so late. Do not tell me your card is completely filled?”
This man’s charm served to put her at ease quite effectively. There was something about him that drew a smile from her as easily as a bee drew nectar from a flower. Lifting the hand he had just kissed, along with the broken string of her reticule and the silver dance card case tied around her wrist, she smiled.
“One dance left,” she told him as he opened the case.
As she’d said, the next to last dance had been left unclaimed, just above the waltz that she could not participate in. She had neatly marked it through with a line so that no one would attempt signing for it.
“No waltzing for you this year?” he asked while scribbling his name on her card.
“The patronesses have not permitted me to waltz this year. Perhaps next Season.”
“If someone hasn’t already made an honest woman of you by then, which I find unlikely.”
Her eyes went wide as he replaced the tiny pencil in her case and dropped it to dangle from her wrist. He was so nonchalant standing in the midst of the crowded assembly room, saying such bold things.
“Lord Fairchild …”
“Forgive me,” he said with another one of his bright smiles. “It is only that … well, if someone were to make off with you to the altar before I’ve come to know you, I should think it quite a tragedy.”
Olivia could only stare at him, slack-jawed, as he began backing away from her, gaze lingering on her face, then sweeping lower over her body. She shivered, experiencing the trickle of attraction down her spine for the first time since coming to London.
“Until our dance, Lady Olivia,” he said, giving her a wink. “I am looking forward to it.”
He disappeared into the crowd before she had a chance to respond. But, really, she did not think she would have been able to speak, her tongue stuck tight to the roof of her mouth.
She watched the top of his bright head float across the room, then blinked and forced herself to look away before her woolgathering attracted someone’s attention. She went off in search of more lemonade, her stomach doing a little flip at the thought of the upcoming dance with the mysterious and handsome young lord.
Had she, at last, found the man she might experience a romance of sorts with while in London? God, she hoped so. She’d grown weary of sadness and grief. She wanted dancing and smiles and secretive glances across the room.
Lord Bertram Fairchild had just become her best chance.
CHAPTER NINE
f all the things Olivia had enjoyed during her former life, she had missed music the most. As a girl, she’d become accustomed to it being a part of her everyday life. It had all begun when she’d walked into the music room at Dunvar House to find an eleven year-old Adam seated at the pianoforte. When she’d sat beside him on the bench and watched him masterfully play without the benefit of sheet music, she had been enthralled. The connection he felt to the music seemed visceral, instinctual. He’d told her that his mother had taught him herself. However, his talent for the instrument went far beyond anything that could be taught. Seeing him so passionate about the music had made her want to learn, as well. It had made her want to connect to the music in her own way.
So, just as his mother had, Adam nurtured Olivia’s own discovered talents. He’d taught her the pianoforte, though as the years passed them by, she’d begun to feel the pull toward stringed instruments. First there had been the violin and cello, which she’d come to play adequately. However, it wasn’t until a harp had been brought to Dunvar House that she’d found the instrument that she’d been born to master.
The first time she’d touched her fingers to harp strings, something had resonated through her like a ripple on the surface of still waters. Those little undulations upon her soul never ceased, growing stronger and wider every time she sat to play. An instructor had been brought in for her at Adam’s behest. He’d managed to convince the earl that the skill could be useful for Olivia as a noble lady, giving her an edge over the others when it came time for her to debut.
In less than a year, she’d surpassed all that the instructor could teach her, her talent growing by leaps and bounds with the guidance of a teacher to feed it. Each holiday from school, she would spend countless hours practicing, learning compositions, and even experimenting with songs of her own—little bits of music born only from her mind.
She’d missed playing with Adam, seeking out harp and piano duets for them to learn, the quiet moments they would encapsulate themselves in the music room, becoming lost in melodies and harmonies for hours. Often, the window would be left open for Niall, who might come from the stable if he heard the music floating out through the evening air. Climbing into the house, he’d settle into a chair and listen.
