Page 67 of Hearts of Briarwall

Spencer started out of his stupor and followed her, not daring a glance backward at Andrew. He didn’t need to. He could feel his friend’s glare burning holes into his back.

Chapter 12

With Spencer following a few steps behind her, Lydia pushed open the door to the morning room where she usually met with the Wendy League and kept going to one of the windows on the far wall. She released the latch and pushed the pane open, breathing in the cool evening air, willing the lazy patter of raindrops to calm her ... heragitation.

Oh, if only Peter Pan would show up, sprinkle her with pixie dust and fly her away to Neverland. She caught her reflection in the second dark windowpane: her gown, her curves, her hair, even the flush of her lips—they all spoke of growing up. And the roiling feelings inside her as Spencer had sung low and mellow behind her at the piano—those beckoned a growing up as well. The glimmer of the sapphires at her ears drew her gaze, and then Spencer’s reflection appeared behind her, watching her intently.

“Shall we start from the beginning?” he asked.

She turned. “Yes. I was so focused on the piano keys I didn’t give the lyrics my best effort.” What was she to do with all of thisenergy?

“Very well.” He held up the music, and she joined him, gripping one side of the songbook as he kept hold of the other. He angled himself to accommodate her nearness. “This is quite like fixing the clock,” he said with a frown.

“The anticipation?”

“The proximity.”

A shiver caressed her spine, and she swallowed. “Ah. Yes. That, too. Shall we? I liked how you started before, and then I had a turn.”

“And then we joined together,” he said, his eyes focused on the music, his voice low and soft. “Here.” He touched the sheet.

She dared a glance at him, wondering if he knew how enticing that sounded. “Yes.” She gently cleared her throat, and they both stood a little taller. She recalled the beginning note and gave it to him with a hum.

He began. When she’d been seated at the piano, his voice had floated above her, surprising her, coaxing a smile to her lips. It was not a refined singing voice like Sir Lawrence’s trained vocals, but certainly clear and true. Now, as she stood so close to him, the timbre of his baritone moved through her as a tangible thing, the sound of his breathing matching her own.

She startled when it was her turn, and he smiled at the ground as she began. She carried her part through, strangely eager to hear their voices combine, to have him recall the sound of her mother, to tie his memories with her own lack of them.

She was not disappointed. Even Fallon paused in her stitchery and watched them, a faraway look of pleasure in her eyes. At the gentle touch of his hand cupping her elbow, Lydia dared a look at Spencer. He was already watching her, his voice softening as his gaze dropped to her mouth, their words mirroring one another.

They finished the verse and paused. Neither of them spoke, and Lydia felt as if she’d run up Picnic Hill and back, though they hadn’t even completed the song. The air between them seemed to push and pull with an indecisive force, bewildering and powerful.

Lydia swallowed. “Fallon? Can you fetch us some water? Already my throat is dry.”

Fallon blinked, as if waking from a dream. “Yes, miss. That was lovely, miss. Mr. Hayes.” With a curtsy, she left.

Bless Fallon.

At the gentle click of her exit, Lydia turned to face Spencer, who was bringing his gaze from the closed door back to her.

“Lydia, I don’t think—” he started.

“We cheated,” she said, pulling in a deep breath of cool air from the still-open window.

He dropped her elbow. “What?”

“Violet and I. She wrote your name and folded it a certain way. I chose first, knowing that particular fold had your name attached to it.” Her heart pounded with the confession. “I chose you. Deliberately.”

He hesitated, likely believing her mad. “Why?” he asked.

Surely, he knew why. She huffed a laugh. “Because word of your excellent singing voice has made its rounds about Surrey, and I’m determined to outshine the others.”

At his baffled expression, she threw her eyes heavenward and took a step to him, ran both trembling hands up his lapels and around his collar, and dared bring herself inches from his face, her eyes on his full lips. “I don’t give a brass farthing about the others,” she whispered with a slight tremble.

“You don’t?” he whispered back, visibly swallowing.

She shook her head. Bravely, she leaned forward so the tip of her nose brushed his, and his eyes closed.

“Lydia ...”

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