Page 69 of Hearts of Briarwall

“I beg your pardon. You very recently threw yourself at me.”

She squared her shoulders. “And what of you? Did you not throw yourself right back?” She angrily swatted away a tear.

The door opened behind her with a knock. “Miss? The others asked for ten more minutes.”

Spencer’s hand went to his head, and he turned away.

Lydia nodded at Fallon. Ten minutes to gather her wits. She began to pace and paused. She walked swiftly to Fallon, wringing her hands. “Will you ask Reed to clip some of the branches of blossoms from the kitchen orchard and put them in vases for our song? It will be the perfect thing, don’t you think?”

Fallon hesitated, but conceded. “Indeed, miss.”

“Thank you.” Lydia turned to Spencer as the door shut gently with a click.

They both stood before one another, looking anywhere but at each other.

“You don’t want me,” she said. “Not ... in that way.”

He huffed out a breath, pity on his face. “I can’t.”

She lifted her arms, only to let them fall to her side, her face flaming. “So, we just sing, then?” she said, feeling flat and defeated.

He sighed. “Lydia, you are beautiful, smart, evocative—”

“Go on,” she choked out, painfully amused that he could compliment her while rejecting her.

He stepped forward and brushed away another of her tears. “Andrew would kill me for making you cry.” He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her.

“If I don’t first.” She took his offering and dabbed her eyes.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “How am I ever to resist you?”

“Don’t.” She wanted to take it back as soon as she said it. And she hated that she was desperate enough to mean it.

He stepped away but took her hand and kissed it. “I must.” He winced as if pained. “And you must trust that I have my reasons. I wish you will know what love is one day. But it cannot be with me.”

Lydia wanted to shout. To shake him and ask, “Why not? Were you not just here? Did you not feel the earth shift beneath us during that kiss?”

But the insecure little girl in her guessed that he had not, and she simply nodded. “So. We just sing, then.”

He nodded. “We just sing.”

Lydia sat stiff in her drawing room chair, doing her best to appear unruffled, wishing the musicale was over and she was upstairs in bed, buried under her covers. She hoped she did not look like the unraveled mess of yarn she felt like on the inside. The last thing she needed were questions over the state of her well-being. If only she could spin herself into a tidy ball and roll right out of the room.

Unaware of what had transpired in the morning room, Violet stood poised and elegant at the front of the drawing room. “Sir Lawrence and I will be performing a classic poem that has recently been set to music by the late composer Miss Ellen Wright. I’ve always held Miss Wright in high esteem, and upon her death, I took it upon myself to learn as many of her songs as I could. I am still learning.” Violet stepped aside, holding her violin as though it were an extension of her arms. She did not raise it yet, and Sir Lawrence stepped forward, clearing his throat.

“The poem is entitled ‘She Walks in Beauty’ by Lord Byron.” His mother gasped, and he lifted a handkerchief to his neck, as if he’d anticipated his mother’s shock and was already perspiring. His gaze flickered to Lydia’s. “This is for you, dear L—ladies. Here. In this room tonight.”

Lydia pressed her lips together, finding relief that she was not alone in her discomfort that evening. Indeed, Sir Lawrence looked a bit piqued. She recognized Violet’s subtle smirk as she raised her violin to her chin, the bow poised and ready. Despite the turmoil of Lydia’s own feelings, she could not help her pride in her friend’s self-assurance.

As Lydia settled further into her chair, her skirts brushed against Spencer’s leg, and she quickly adjusted so that even her clothing would be clear of him. Her humiliation was too fresh, too sharp, to ease back into a friendship with him, as they’d quietly agreed to before coming down. She was not quite sure, after their kiss, how she could even accomplish that feat. Her face warmed at the memory—and at the following mortification. She’d experienced stolen kisses before, but nothing in the realm of what had taken place in the morning room. Perhaps she was more of a child than she’d wanted to believe.

With a jolt, she realized Violet was already playing a steady, sweet melody as Sir Lawrence’s bass vibrato was filling the room, and that his entire focus as he sang the words of Lord Byron’s love letter was solely onher. She glanced to her right and left to see if anyone else noticed the attention she was receiving from the man.

Andrew seemed to quickly redirect his gaze away from her as Violet began the second verse. It was a variation of the first, with lilting lifts and falls over Sir Lawrence’s sure melody. Lydia might have enjoyed the rendition if not for his intense stare and mottling purple of his cheeks, the light sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. Could he not see he was making a scene?

She burrowed deeper into her chair and dared a glance at Spencer. He was frowning, his chest rising and falling, his eyes trained on Violet’s violin. She glanced at Mrs. Piedmont, who fanned herself and could not look prouder. Indeed, she peered knowingly at Lydia with a haughty lift of her brow. In a blink, the woman’s focus was back on her son.

“One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grrace which waves in every rrrraven trress ...”

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