“Why not? Why not?” Grandfather asked expansively. “A brandy would be grand, eh, what?” He beamed at Nicholas. Nicholas looked at the table, cheeks burning. He very rarely drank alcohol and Grandfather knew that.
“Why don’t you play for us, Bernadette?” Lady Rothendale encouraged as they retired to the drawing room.
Nicholas felt a wrench of awkwardness. She was probably a terrible pianist, and he was going to have to endure her playing and try to think of something polite to say afterwards. Marcia was a truly good pianist, but many young ladies just played to be able to claim that they had mastered it.
He focused his attention on Lord Rothendale, not watching as she went to the piano, seeing her looking shy and uncomfortable.
Miss Rowland started playing. The first notes were soft and sorrowful and lovely. The melody wrenched his heart, speaking of a sadness that he understood. He stared at her.
Her honey brown hair fluffed about her face, glowed in the candlelight; her hazel eyes enhanced by the dark blue dress she wore. She was looking down, watching her fingers as the melodyflowed from them. It was effortless. Notes of dark, bittersweet sadness filtered through the room, and he shut his eyes, awed.
She’s an excellent pianist.
The sonata she’d chosen to play matched exactly the mood that had settled on him. The feelings in the music matched his own so well. He felt trapped, but also unworthy and ashamed. He tried not to let a tear escape as the music brought forth the feelings of sorrow that he’d suppressed for so long. Not just sorrow for his wounding, but the inescapable sadness ever since Father passed. He opened his eyes again.
She looked up and for a moment, her hazel eyes locked with his. He felt his heart leap. The expression in them was a mix of surprise and sorrow that matched his own. It felt as though they were alone in all the world, two souls with the same searching sadness. Then her eyes widened, and she looked down.
I imagined it,he told himself harshly. Her sudden, terrified glance was like a cold palm slapping his face. She was like all the rest. She was shallow and silly, despite her great talent at the pianoforte, and she’d be scared of him.
“...the future looks promising for the importing of precious fabrics. We should invest now, and increase the value”
Nicholas heard his grandfather’s words intrude on his thoughts and scowled at him where he leaned back, as relaxed as though he was more comfortable there than anywhere else in the world.
You find it easy to meddle in other people’s worlds. Just likeyou’re meddling in mine,he wanted to shout. He glared at him but Grandfather, comfortable and confident, didn’t even notice and kept on talking, discussing recent losses in the rope-making trade.
Nicholas gazed over at the young lady who sat, pale as ivory, her fingers on the keys. She was looking down, at the notes, her eyelashes resting on her cheeks. She looked so sad and tragic, and Nicholas felt his heart ache in sympathy for them both, his throat tightened in pain.
He touched his scar, only barely aware that he did it, the deep furrow that crossed his mouth familiar and hateful, filling him with hot, queasy shame.
She was as fearful as every other young lady had ever been and it was like a constant reminder of his scarred face, his ugliness.
He focused on Grandfather instead. That was so much easier than trying to imagine what his future with the scared young girl at the piano would be.
“I say!” Grandfather commented loudly. “Is that the time? Already ten o’ clock?”
“It is, Lord Lockwood,” Lord Rothendale said politely.
“Nicholas, we ought to get on our way. I have a meeting with some investors of the East India Company tomorrow. I can’t doze at the table then.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” Nicholas murmured sullenly. It waseasy to be angry with him. Thinking any further—about what he thought of her or she thought of him—was too hard.
“Lord and Lady Rothendale...I’ve taken care of the announcements, the license, everything. You may rest assured, all is above board and respectable.” Lord Lockwood grinned at Lady Rothendale as he stood up. Lady Rothendale smiled back.
“I assure you, we expected nothing less, my lord.” Her voice was sugar sweet. Nicholas felt his guts twist. These people were clearly overawed by Grandfather. Could they not see what he was like? He was only using them as they likely believed they used him. Nicholas looked away sourly. The world was corrupt, much more than he’d imagined.
“Good. Then you’ll not mind Nicholas accompanying your daughter to the Haymarket Theater tomorrow. Chaperoned, of course. That’s only good and proper.”
“Grandfather...” Nicholas muttered in shock, but his grandfather was already at the door, bowing and smiling and acting like the genial guest.
A whole evening at the theater loomed ahead, trapped in the private box with a young woman who was petrified even to look at him. He glared at his grandfather. His grandfather was already walking through the door and Nicholas could only follow him and rail silently against his decision for tomorrow.
Chapter 8
“Mama? Are you really sure that red is an appropriate colour for the theater?” Bernadette protested as her mother swept into her bedchamber, shepherding Judy who carried the red gown.
“Of course, my dear! It’s something showy. And you don’t want to blend in. There’ll be so many people at the theater, you’ll need a bright gown to stand out.”
Bernadette felt her stomach twist with nerves. The dress was scarlet silk, the neck low and square-cut. It was doubtless fashionable, but she’d feel like she was on display constantly, unable to blend in at all and drawing everyone’s critical eyes to herself. She felt her hand clench into a fist, steeling herself.
