“I think you’re right,” he said softly. “I certainly was affected by your Beethoven sonata.”
“Oh?” Miss Rowland went pink. He smiled. Seeing her sweetdiscomfort delighted him.
“Yes. You truly are talented,” he said sincerely. She stared up at him, her hazel eyes huge.
“You really think so?” she asked softly.
He drew a deep breath. “Of course, I do,” he said firmly. He frowned. “You must know how talented you are? Surely, you are aware of your gift.” He had assumed she’d chosen to play the piano because she knew how good she was. He stared in surprise as she shook her head.
“Nobody ever said that. My music tutor did, but Mama and Papa, well...” She looked down at her toes. “They said accomplishments were important, and as long as I had one or two, that was enough.”
“They never encouraged or praised you?” Nicholas blinked. His own father had shown enthusiasm for every talent he had, from riding to sword-fighting to running. Not shooting, since he’d always been a bad shot, but every talent he had, his father had supported intensely.
“No,” Miss Rowland answered, looking at him a little oddly, as though he’d said something peculiar that she didn’t really understand.
“That’s no good,” Nicholas said softly. He gazed into her eyes. Suddenly, he felt as though he understood her a little better. She was shy and retiring, but that was because her family didn’t ever encourage or praise her. They probably belittled her, if truth be known—every time he’d done or said somethingencouraging, she’d acted as though she didn’t know what he was talking about. They clearly showed no regard for her in arranging the match—if he were to guess, she’d been pushed into it like he had. His heart ached with compassion for her.
“It’s not so bad,” she murmured.
Nicholas looked into her eyes, holding her gaze. She looked up at him and he felt his heart stop, his soul drawn into the hazel depths of her eyes. Like lakes of mossy greenish water, they drew him in, and he couldn’t look away.
“Gentleman’sGazette!” A newspaper-seller yelled suddenly from behind them. “Get it here! The latest news!”
Nicholas jumped, blood rushing to his head in sudden shock. “What the...?”
She chuckled. “Sorry. Newspaper seller. We’ve walked all the way to the other gate.”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, we have.” He blinked, looking around in surprise. The man selling the newspapers was stationed beside the gate, and people were strolling in and out, some of them looking at Nicholas disapprovingly for his outburst. He reddened, fingers going instinctively to the scar.
“That was loud,” Miss Rowland commented, looking over at the newspaper seller, who was still yelling to advertise his wares.
“Wretched man,” he said with a laugh. His heart was still thudding. He’d been staring at Miss Rowland so intensely that he wouldn’t have noticed if he’d been hit by a falling building.
“Yes! He had me fit to collapse from shock.” Miss Rowland chuckled.
Nicholas felt his smile stretch across his face and they turned, walking back along the leaf-lined pathway. Miss Rowland’s chaperone walked with them.
“We’re having a fine springtime,” Miss Rowland commented. “I love springtime. It’s my favourite time of the year.”
“Mine, too,” Nicholas agreed. “Though not the London Season.” He made a nauseated face. She giggled.
“No! Absolutely not! If there could be springtime without it, I’d be most thankful.”
“Indeed.”
Again, their gazes met and held, and Nicholas felt a slight frown crease his brow. How had he not noticed how very similar they actually were? Both of them found themselves on the edge of society, both born to families that were very much included in it. Both of them sought solace in music and nature, and both of them were being pushed by their families in a direction not of their choosing.
He looked into her eyes and wished, for the first time he could remember, that he could read minds. Normally, it would seem like a curse. With her, he longed to be able to fathom what she was really thinking.
She gazed up at him too. Without thinking what he did, helet his hand rest, very gently, on her own. He heard her gasp and he tensed, but she didn’t move.
“You’re cold,” he murmured. Her skin was cold like the water in the fountain. She shrugged.
“I’m not really,” she told him gently. “It’s just this light wind. It chills one a bit.” She was sitting very still, her hand motionless where his enfolded it.
“Shall we return the way we came here?” he asked gently.
She inclined her head. “Perhaps that would be nice,” she agreed. He wanted to smile—she was clearly cold, teeth almost chattering, but not ready to admit it.
