Page 55 of The Heiress's Daughter
His cousin laughed merrily. “You deceive no one with your disinterest, dearest cuz. I made sure I learned Miss Studley’s plans for the next week. I knew you’d want to know. She’s going to the soirée tonight, and then she’ll attend the Peplowes’ rout party, and on Wednesday she’s going to Almack’s—not that you’d be interested in that. I know how you feel about Almack’s.”
Race stood up. “Thank you for the tea, Maggie. It was very nice.”
“Said the man who let his tea grow cold, untouched, and hasn’t tasted a single crumb of Cook’s delicious shortbread,” his cousin said affably. She rose and patted his cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you informed of all her activities. We can’t let the saintly wounded hero of Waterloo get the better of us, can we?”
Race had nothing to say to that. He didn’t want his gossipy cousin to be involved in his courtship at all, but since he could not call on Miss Studley himself—curse it!—he had no choice. But it went very much against the grain. He’d always managed his own affairs in private.
He kissed his cousin’s cheek and took his leave of her.
Old Lady Gastonbury’ssoirées musicalewere strangely popular with the ton, though why, Race couldn’t understand. They were primarily a venue for showing off the talents of her beloved granddaughter. He’d never met Cicely or heard her sing, but rumor held her to be a pleasant girl who couldn’t carry a tune to save her life. Apparently neither she nor her grandmother was aware of it.
But Lady Gastonbury was well-liked, and her soirées were famous for the lavish suppers that followed the performances. He supposed that might explain it, though hunger wasn’t generally a feature of society life.
Race arrived a little late—he didn’t want to appear too eager. As it was, Lady Gastonbury greeted him effusively and his entrance caused a ripple of speculation among the waiting audience. He gritted his teeth. He was prepared for his ears to be tortured in the name of love, but he hated the attention he drew.
He stood in the doorway and surveyed the room. Immediately half a dozen women—both matchmaking mamas and married women seeking dalliance—waved to him, and there was a general shifting of seats as they made room for him to sit.
Miss Studley was sitting on the far side of the room, and luck was with him: there was a spare seat between her and her chaperone. The chaperone was in conversation with another lady. Miss Studley didn’t seem to have noticed him yet—she was looking straight ahead of her—but as he watched, her color heightened. She knew.
He made his way between rows of chairs, heading toward her, nodding to various people who greeted him along the way, but when he finally reached Miss Studley, dammit if that spare seat wasn’t taken.
He glared at the white-haired elderly dandy who’d stolen his place. The old fellow beamed up at him. “How d’ye do, young Randall? Come to enjoy some fine music, eh? Miss Cicely’s a marvel, don’cha think?” He glanced at Miss Studley sitting demurely beside him, and added, “I expect you’d prefer to be sittin’ where I am, but when this kind lady invited me to sit with her, well, what sort of a slow-top would refuse, eh? A thorn between two roses, eh? Delighted to be here.” He chuckled.
Sheinvitedhim?
Miss Studley smiled politely, but failed to meet Race’s eye.
Race inclined his head. “Good evening, Sir Oswald, Miss Studley, Mrs. Price-Jones.”
Miss Studley murmured a greeting, but still didn’t meet his eyes.
Old Sir Oswald Merridew kept rabbiting on about something, but Race paid him a bare minimum of attention. Why wouldn’t she look at him? Was she embarrassed about the kiss they’d shared? Surely not.
But if it had rocked him to his foundations, maybe it had the same effect on her. Had it alarmed her, perhaps? Her first taste of passion.
Or was she really planning to marry Clayborn as the fellow had claimed?
The thought filled his veins with ice. But why else would she refuse to look at him? And invite some jolly old buffer to sit beside her when she must have known he was here and would wish to sit with her.
Lady Gastonbury tinkled a little bell and a hush fell over the audience. By now there were only a few chairs left on the other side of the room. Race took himself to the end of Miss Studley’s row and propped himself against the wall, where he could watch her, as well as the performances.
Tonight she was wearing a dress of the palest green, and somehow it made her eyes look almost green. So changeable they were, he’d never get tired of gazing into them.
She was well aware of him, he decided. The music had started—not Cicely yet, some soprano he didn’t know; quite good. Miss Studley gave her entire attention to the performance. Her blush had faded a little but it was still there, and she kept darting quick, sideways glances at him and pursing her lips a little.
It was adorable.
She couldn’t possibly be thinking of marrying that wretched Clayborn.
The soprano finished her piece, and everyone applauded, then Cicely stepped onto the small stage. Race braced himself—he hadn’t ever been to one of these events before, but Cicely’s fame had gone before her.
The pianist played the opening bars and Cicely opened her mouth and the noise that came out…Lord, but the suppers had better be worth it. He glanced at Miss Studley and almost laughed out loud at the politely smiling rigidity of her expression. Her ears were being lacerated, too.
The song came to an end and she applauded enthusiastically. Race did, too, wondering how many of those clapping were clapping in relief.
But there was more to come. Next she murdered a song from Mozart’sCosì fan tutte, then a Scottish ballad, then itwas back to Mozart, who would surely be spinning in his grave.
The concert was endless. Race endured it. What animal was it that could close its ears? Otters? Seals? Whichever it was, he devoutly wished he could close his against the assault they were experiencing.
