“If you were Laura,” he said, “or Sarah, or even M-Mary, I would scheme to kiss you again. They are soft, biddable names. But Agnes suggests firmness of character and a stinging palm across the ch-cheek of any man audacious enough to steal a k-kiss for the second time, when she can be presumed to be on her guard. Yes, I am almost glad I was unable to m-meet you. Were you r-really not there? Because I might be? But the daffodils will not bloom forever.”
“It had nothing whatsoever to do with you,” she said. “I had other things to do.”
“More important than your painting?” he asked. “More important than m-me?”
Oh, good heavens, they were at the dinner table. Anyone might overhear snatches of their conversation at any moment, though it was doubtful. And how had she got embroiled in this? She was not his flirt and had no intention of alleviating his boredom for the next two and a half weeks by becoming one.
“More important than me, then,” he said with an exaggerated sigh when she did not answer. “Or should that be I? More important than I. One feels very p-pedantic sometimes when one insists upon using correct g-grammar, would you not agree, Mrs. Keeping? Who is there? It is I. It sounds mildly absurd.”
She did not look at him. But she did smile at her plate and then laugh.
“Ah,” he said, “that is better. Now I know how to coax a l-laugh out of you. I merely have to speak correct grammar.”
She picked up her glass of wine and turned toward him.
“Are you feeling less savage this evening?” she asked him.
His eyes went still, and she wished she had not reminded him that he had said that yesterday morning.
“I expect to be soothed by music,” he said. “Is your s-sister as talented as Vincent claims?”
“She is,” Agnes told him. “But you may judge for yourself later. Do you like music?”
“When it is well performed,” he said. “V-Vincent performs well, though I like to tease him to the contrary. We do t-tease one another, you know. It is one of the endearing aspects of true friendship.”
Sometimes she felt that he was not as shallow as his almost habitual expression seemed to indicate. She remembered having the same thought during the ball. He was not, she thought with an inward shiver, a man one would be comfortable to know.
“He sometimes p-plays a wrong note,” he said, “and he often p-plays more slowly than he ought. But he plays with his eyes wide-open, Mrs. Keeping, and that is what m-matters. That is all that really matters, would you not agree?”
And often he spoke in riddles. He would judge her, she sensed, according to how well she was able to interpret them.
“With the eyes of his soul?” she said. “And you are not speaking just about Lord Darleigh or just about the playing of music, are you?”
But his eyes were mocking again.
“You have become too p-profound for me, Mrs. Keeping,” he said. “You are turning philosophical. It is an alarming trait in a l-lady.”
And he had the effrontery to shudder slightly.
Lord Trentham, she saw, had finished talking with Lady Barclay, at least for the moment. Agnes turned her shoulders and asked him whether he lived in London all year.
* * *
Agnes, Flavian thought as they made their way to the music room from the dining room and he watched her talking to Hugo, her arm through his. One could not imagine reciting a sonnet to the delicately arched eyebrow of sweet Agnes, could one? Or weeping over the immortal tragedy of Romeo and Agnes. Parents really ought to be more careful when naming their children.
He remained on his feet after seating Lady Harper close to the pianoforte. He clasped his hands behind his back as Vincent played his violin—a lilting folk tune. Vince really had improved—there was more vibrato in his playing than there had been last year—though how he could have learned to play at all when he was blind, who knew? It was a triumph of the human spirit that he had done it. Flavian did not join in the applause that succeeded the piece. Instead he beamed fondly at his friend, forgetting for the moment that Vince could not see him. One did tend to forget at times.
The cat purred rather loudly when the applause died down, and there was general laughter.
“I absolutely refrain from commenting,” Flavian said.
Lady Harper played the pianoforte for a few minutes, though she protested that she had only recently resumed playing after a lapse of many years. Then she played and sang a Welsh song—in Welsh. She had a fine mezzo-soprano voice, and somehow made one almost yearn for the hills and mists of Wales. Almost.
Now, there was a woman, Flavian thought, about whom one might weave romantic and erotic fantasies if she did not happen to be the wife of a dearest friend—and if one felt anything more for her than a purely aesthetic appreciation.
Imogen and Ralph surprised everyone by singing a duet to Lady Trentham’s accompaniment. Flavian did not need to tease them afterward—everyone else did it for him. Lady Trentham then played alone and with practiced skill, while Hugo beamed like an idiot and looked fit to burst with pride.
Vincent played on the harp, and Flavian strolled closer to frown in amazement over the fact that he could distinguish so many strings from one another when he could not even see them.
And then it was Miss Debbins’s turn to play, and Flavian had no further excuse to prowl, for she would surely play for longer than a few minutes. He really ought to have taken a seat earlier. The choice left to him now was to squeeze between George and Ralph on the sofa, which would have looked a trifle peculiar and might have annoyed the cat, currently curled up on the middle cushion—or to sit beside Mrs. Keeping on a love seat a little farther removed from the pianoforte.