Candlelight Wish (13 page)

She’d finished herself off with the right touch too. A strand of creamy pearls hung about her throat, a small grouping of pearls clustered at each ear and she had arranged her copious amounts of coppery brown hair in vastly becoming curls. As he drew closer he detected the delicate scent of violets that clung to her. The result went to his head like a fine brandy.

She took his hand with aloof detachment. “As you see,” she said, her voice as cool as a shady stream, “we have been quite as busy as you could wish.”

“You have indeed. You are to be congratulated.”

Her brow creased and a faint color tinged her cheeks. “I did not seek a compliment.”

No, she wouldn’t. Not from him at least. She made that clear enough. He inclined his head but before he could speak again Lucy swept toward them.

She clasped her former instructress’ hands. “Oh Miss Caldicot, I have never seen you look so lovely. Is she not beautiful, Miles?”

“You must not place your brother in so awkward a position,” Miss Caldicot responded before Miles could speak. She then led his sister off to discuss the merits of the ball gown Lucy had ordered that afternoon.

Dinner passed with surprising ease, mostly because he and Miss Caldicot exchanged only the merest commonplaces. They finished barely minutes before the first carriage pulled up in the street and his hostesses made their way to the top of the stairs to greet their arriving guests. Miles escorted his aunt and sister to the elegant drawing room where a large harp, a pianoforte and a cello held positions of prominence.

A cello. Miles strolled forward to examine the instrument, running his fingers along the gleaming wood. He hadn’t played in months. He touched the strings and a haunting tune filled his mind, a humming that wrapped its melodic threads through him. He took the chair, rosined the bow with an abstracted frown, checked to find the instrument perfectly in tune then sought the chords and notes that would reproduce that remarkable song.

He held the final tone, drawing it out until it at last fell silent. For a long moment he sat wrapped in his music until an odd discordant noise smote his ears. He opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed and saw perhaps a score of people sitting about the room, applauding. He hadn’t meant to play for anyone’s entertainment but his own. He stood, laying the instrument aside, bowed and retreated to the back wall of the room.

“That was wonderful,” a soft voice said at his side. “I had no idea you played.”

He looked down to see Miss Caldicot, her eyes glowing, an odd searching expression in their depths. It caught at him, holding him immobile, wiping every conscious thought from his mind. He saw only her beautiful mist-colored eyes, felt only the responding tug of a bond forging between them. Awareness filled him of her scent, of her tentative smile, of her.

And then she was gone, slipping away to greet more new arrivals and the spell broke. The impulse lingered to follow her, to speak to her but now with so many people about did not seem the time. Nor did he know precisely what he wished to say. Instead he leaned against the wall and listened to the elderly Lord Grantley who had brought a violin and a pronounced taste for ballads and convinced himself his imagination ran riot where Miss Caldicot was concerned.

Yet as if of its own volition his gaze strayed back to her. She sat on the far side of the room—and not alone naturally. The tall arrogant figure of the Marquis of Rushmere occupied the place at her side. His head bent toward her and he spoke words that seemed intended for her ears alone.

The damn man flirted with her. Anger welled within Miles, surprising by its very existence. Why the devil should it matter to him whom Miss Caldicot encouraged? Yet infuriatingly, it did. He considered the matter and decided it was because the marquis was an unprincipled rake and he didn’t want to see someone of whom his sister was fond taken in by a man who would think nothing of ruining her. He had shepherded too many sisters through this particular forest of wolves not to recognize the need to take action.

What he would do, precisely, would depend on Rushmere. Miles would have to give the matter some thought. Miss Caldicot was not a young lady who would take kindly to his meddling in her affairs. But he had no intention of letting that stop him.

Two middle-aged gentlemen—Mr. Colney with his oboe and Sir Roderick Leyland with the cello—struck up a duet with the ease of long practice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miss Caldicot wave to someone and the next moment Charles Dauntry strolled over to join her. That ought to please him more than it did.

As the music drew to a close Lady Xanthe called for an interval and Dauntry led Miss Caldicot off to find refreshment. Mr. Colney, he noted with amusement, tucked away his oboe and turned to Aunt Jane, greeting her with all the warmth of an old friendship. He wouldn’t have to worry about her entertainment for a little while. Which left only Lucy.

He spotted her sitting with Miss Hanna Brookstone and Simon Ashby. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Miss Brookstone sat with Lord Ashby and Lucy merely happened to share the same sofa with her two friends. Ashby had been speaking and Miss Brookstone hung upon his every word. Lucy, oblivious to both appearances and their conversation, kept skewing about, peering at the door then at the mantel clock, her expression both earnest and impatient. Disappointment awaited her, Miles reflected, if she hoped to see Lieutenant Harwich this night. He could think of no gentleman less likely for Lady Xanthe to invite to her party.

Ashby excused himself and strode over to speak with Sir Roderick Leyland. Hanna Brookstone at once grasped Lucy’s hands, compelling the other girl’s attention and launched into some whispered confidence. She really was a pretty chit, Miles reflected, watching her animated countenance. She possessed a plump softness set off by ringlets the color of ripe corn and a gown of pink gauze that matched the roses in her cheeks. Her manners were all one could wish for in a well-bred young lady but she possessed a silliness he could only be grateful Lucy didn’t share. She would probably make an excellent match.

Lucy straightened and stared at her friend, frowning. Miss Brookstone giggled and nodded but Lucy only scowled all the more. She made some short answer that drew an indignant exclamation from Miss Brookstone and sent her off in a flounce. Curious, Miles joined his sister.

Lucy looked up at him, her expression vexed. “Hanna is in raptures over Simon,” she informed him.

“So are a number of other young ladies,” he reminded her.

She waved that aside. “Oh, he can be quite engaging when he puts his mind to it, I suppose. But the way she looked up at him, fluttering her eyelashes and flirting in the most outrageous manner! I would never do anything so vulgar.” She cast a darkling glance across the room to where Ashby remained with Sir Roderick. “And he was just as bad.” She sniffed. “I daresay he likes obvious females.”

Miles could not help but be pleased. It would do Lucy a great deal of good to see her old friend through the eyes of another young lady. It just might make her forget scarlet coats.

People milled back into the room and groups shifted while everyone found new seats. Lady Xanthe drew Miss Caldicot toward the pianoforte and Miles’ interest roused. He moved to the wall where he stood with his shoulder propped against it and his arms folded and watched as she settled at the instrument, hesitated a moment then began on a ballad of treacherous love.

Her voice suited her, he decided, delicate yet clear, intense and haunting. He could listen to her for a very long time. Yet the song ended all too soon and she left the instrument. The buzz of conversation which had stilled for her performance broke out again as Charles Dauntry moved to intercept her. She evaded him with an apologetic smile, responding instead to an imperious summons by his Aunt Jane. Miles strolled over to join them.

As he approached, Miss Caldicot looked up, met his gaze and soft color tinged her cheeks. She looked away.

“I am glad to see that years of instructing less than talented young ladies has not destroyed your love of music,” he said.

At that, an impish smile flickered in her eyes. “How do you know it has not?”

“No one could play and sing as you do if it had,” he said simply.

Her color deepened. “You flatter me, sir.”

He shook his head. “If you are brave, perhaps we might try a duet at some time.”

She met his gaze and her smile faded. Somewhere behind them a violinist and flautist tuned briefly then launched into a lively piece by Mozart. Miles found that for once he had found something—or rather someone—of more interest than the music. He stared into her eyes which reflected the sparkle of the candles, the sparkle of her lively spirit. An impulse, almost overpowering, seized him to run his fingers through her silken curls.

“Why not try a piece together some night soon?” Aunt Jane suggested.

Miles stiffened. He had forgotten her presence. For that matter he’d forgotten everyone else in the room as well. A damn fool he must look, gazing like a moonling at a lovely face. “An excellent suggestion,” he said, inserting a casual note into his voice. “If you and Lady Xanthe could join us for dinner we could try our hands at a piece or two.”

Phoebe returned a tentative answer and moved away to consult her godmother about a possible date. Miles turned back to the musicians until a young lady took up her place at the harp, an instrument he cordially detested. He could easily slip out in search of refreshments for a few minutes. He reached the door only to fall back a pace as a slight gentleman in scarlet regimentals hurried up the steps from the ground floor. Lieutenant Gregory Harwich made an elegant leg to him, flashed him the brilliant smile that so affected foolishly romantic young ladies like Lucilla and swept past him into the drawing room.

Lucilla sprang to her feet, causing her neighbors to turn to stare at her, then stood, hands clasped, her heart blatant in her expression as her officer made his way to her side. He seized both her hands, carried them to his lips then sank to the sofa at her side, drawing her down with him. Not a single word passed between them but there was no need. Their besotted gazes spoke far too eloquently.

Miss Caldicot interfering again, Miles fumed. He could think of no other explanation for that damn fellow to be here. He started forward to drag Lucy away by any means necessary only to catch sight of Miss Caldicot hurrying toward him. He didn’t stop.

Her hand caught his arm. “Please, Sir Miles.”

He spun to face her, glaring. “What the devil do you mean, inviting that man here?” he demanded in a voice that took every ounce of his willpower to keep low.

She pulled on his arm, coaxing him from the room. “You must not create a scene,” she whispered. “And smile at me, for heaven’s sake, or you will cause the very scandal you hope to avoid.” With an obvious effort she forced the corners of her mouth upward.

He did the same though doubted he fooled anyone. With at least the appearance of complacence he allowed her to draw him from the apartment and down the hall to the dining room. “I should have thought this was one house where my sister would be safe from his machinations. Do you enjoy watching Lucy make a spectacle of herself over a blatant fortune hunter?”

“It is no such thing and so you would realize if you didn’t let your temper override your judgment. How can she possibly come to know him if she is never permitted to see him?”

“My point exactly,” he snapped.

“Would you rather your sister be permitted to build dreams about him, turn him into a hero in her heart? It is better by far for her to come to know the real man.”

He glowered at her. “That’s not something she is likely to do. The fellow is an expert at engaging the affections of young ladies, at disguising his own mercenary motives. The result will be that the foolish girl will fancy herself in love with him and then there’ll be the devil to pay and no pitch hot.”

“How can you know he is truly so terrible if you do not come to know him yourself?” Phoebe demanded. “You know nothing of him.”

“I know he is not a member of Whites nor of Brooks. I know that he has never been inside Almack’s and that he has dangled after at least three heiresses during the last year, two of them daughters of cits. Is that not sufficient? Yet here you are, interfering with my efforts to see my sister safely married to a gentleman of sense and respectability.”

“Lucilla doesn’t want sense and respectability,” Phoebe informed him. “She wants romance. And if you thought about it for a moment you’d see you’re providing her with that romance by making her think herself a tragic heroine. Believe me, opposition is fatal.”

His jaw clenched. “You may be an expert in the schoolroom, Miss Caldicot but allow me to be a better judge of the world. I will be grateful to you if you will refrain from meddling in my sister’s affairs.”

She flushed and anger flashed in her eyes. “Someone has to interfere with your outrageous managing. Lucilla regards Lord Ashby as a friend and cannot imagine marrying him—at the moment.”

“So you believe I should permit her to throw herself away on an unprincipled fortune hunter?”

“I believe nothing of the sort!” she snapped back. “But tonight she has felt the first stirrings of jealousy over Lord Ashby. And if I know Hanna Brookstone there will be many more to come. Give them a chance to develop and she’ll lose interest in so easy a conquest as her lieutenant.”