He chose not to annoy the cat.
He wondered whether she had told the truth about not going to the meadow this morning, and then realized how conceited it was of him to imagine that perhaps she had gone there and been so disappointed not to find him that she had pretended she had not gone at all.
He had very possibly given her an eternal disgust of him when he kissed her. She had probably not been kissed by any man other than her husband until then. Undoubtedly she had not, in fact. She had virtuous woman written all over her in invisible ink.
“The serious entertainment is to begin, then?” he said as Miss Debbins seated herself at the harp.
“The implication being that the other performances were trivial?” she said.
He grasped the handle of his quizzing glass and half raised it.
“You are in a combative mood, Mrs. Keeping,” he said. “But I would g-guess none of those who have already played or sung would care to f-follow Miss Debbins.”
“You do have a point there,” she conceded.
She was wearing the same gown she had worn to the harvest ball. Now, how the devil had he remembered that? It was hardly an outstanding item of fashion, though it was pretty enough. The light from one of the candles was sparkling off the silver embroidery at the hem, as he remembered its doing on that occasion.
And then he lowered his glass and gaped. At least, that was how he felt inwardly, even if it did not show on his face. For suddenly music poured and rippled and surged about them and did a number of other startling things that words could not begin to describe. And it all came from one harp and the fingers of one woman. After a minute or two Flavian raised his quizzing glass again all the way to his eye and looked through it at the instrument, at the strings, and at the hands of the woman who played them. How was it possible . . .
The applause at the end of the piece was more than polite, and Miss Debbins was begged to play again before moving to the pianoforte. When she did go there, George jumped to his feet just like an underling to position the bench for her.
“And do you p-play, Mrs. Keeping?” Flavian asked while her sister prepared herself at the keyboard.
“Hardly at all.”
“But you paint,” he said. “Are you talented? Lady Darleigh s-says you are.”
“She is kind,” Mrs. Keeping told him. “She is talented. Have you seen her caricatures? And her story illustrations? I paint well enough for my own pleasure and poorly enough that I always dream of that one perfect painting.”
“I s-suppose even Michelangelo and Rembrandt did that,” he said. “Perhaps Michelangelo sculpted the Pietà and then stood back and wondered if he would ever sculpt something that was really worth doing. I shall have to s-see your work to judge how w-well you measure up to the masters.”
“Indeed?” There was a world of disdain in her voice.
“Do you keep them under lock and key?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “but I choose who sees them.”
“And I am not to be included in that n-number?”
“I very much doubt it,” she said.
An excellent setdown. He looked at her with appreciation.
“Why?”
Her eyes turned his way, and he smiled slowly.
She was spared the need to answer him. Miss Debbins had begun to play something by Handel.
She played for longer than half an hour, though she tried to rise from her place at the end of each piece. No one was willing to let her go. And she did indeed display a quite extraordinary talent. One would not really have expected it. She must be a good ten years older than her sister, perhaps more. She was smaller and plainer. She looked quite unremarkable—until she set her fingers to a musical instrument.
“How easy it is to dismiss the outer packaging without an inkling that one is thereby missing the precious beauty within.” His thoughts had acquired sound, and Flavian realized with acute embarrassment that he had spoken aloud.
“Yes.” And Mrs. Keeping had heard him.
The recital was at an end, and a number of his friends were clustered about Miss Debbins at the pianoforte. Lady Darleigh excused herself after a minute or two in order to go up to the nursery—Flavian suspected that she was unfashionable enough not to have engaged a wet nurse. Lady Trentham asked if she might accompany her, and the two ladies went off together. Vincent announced that tea would be served in the drawing room if everyone would care to remove there. Ralph was running his fingers silently over the harp strings. George was offering his arm to Miss Debbins and informing her that she must be very ready for her tea. Ben, who had not brought his wheeled chair into the music room, was hoisting himself slowly to his feet between his canes, and Lady Harper was smiling over him and making some remark that was lost in the hubbub of voices.
“Mrs. Keeping.” Flavian got to his feet and offered his arm. “Allow me.”
He had the feeling she had been sitting very quietly where she was, in the hope that he would wander away and forget about her. Maybe that was part of the attraction, was it? That she had never put herself forward to attract his notice? Other women did—except the ones who knew him or knew of him, though even some of the latter still pursued him. For some women there was an irresistible fascination about a dangerous man, though his reputation exceeded reality these days. At least he hoped it did.
“Thank you.”
She got to her feet and took his arm, the mere tips of her fingers touching the inner side of his sleeve. She really was rather tall. Perhaps that was why he had enjoyed dancing with her. She smelled of soap. Not perfume. Nothing either strong or expensive. Just soap. It occurred to him almost as a surprise that he would very much like to bed her.