“Not necessarily,” she said. “Mr. Pierce is doing a job tonight and doing it well. How can he display talent in such circumstances? He is not here to draw attention to himself or even to the music.”
“You are quite right,” he said. “I am constantly reminded of why I like you so much. Will you play for our guests? Directly after supper, perhaps? I shall give Pierce a break and send him for supper belowstairs. Will you? Please?”
“I would be consumed by terror,” she said. But oh, the yearning to say yes.
“Is that a no?” he asked. “But your eyes say yes. My motives are entirely selfish. I wish to share the talents of my affianced bride with those members of the ton gathered here and bask in your reflected glory. However, I will not press you. Tonight is probably a bit intimidating for you even as it is, though you show no outer sign of it.”
“Just for a very short while?” she asked, and then wished she could recall the words.
“For as long or as short a time as you wish,” he said.
She drew breath, let it out, and bit her lower lip.
“I do apologize—” he said.
“Very well,” she said simultaneously.
He frowned in concern. Dora smiled. And he smiled too.
“You are sure?” he asked her.
“Absolutely not,” she told him. “But I will do it.”
“Thank you,” he said. He offered his arm. “Shall we go and have a word with Pierce?”
Although it was not a ball and there would not normally have been a formal supper, there was to be one on this occasion, the duke had explained a day or two ago, because it was their betrothal party. Dora was seated beside him in the ballroom, which had been set up with enough tables to accommodate everyone. Candlelight from the chandeliers overhead glittered off fine china and crystal and jewels. There was a sumptuous feast. Dora could enjoy none of it. What had she agreed to? But she had no one to blame but herself.
The duke got to his feet after the guests had eaten their fill and waited for silence to fall. He welcomed those guests who had come to town specifically for his wedding to Miss Debbins, most notably his betrothed’s father, Sir Walter Debbins, with Lady Debbins and her brother, the Reverend Oliver Debbins, with Mrs. Debbins. He proposed a toast to his betrothed, soon to be his wife.
Dora smiled at her father, at her brother and sister-in-law, at Agnes, at Chloe and Ralph, directly in her line of vision. Butterflies danced in her stomach.
“I have a special treat in store for you after supper,” the duke said. “My betrothed is not only an accomplished musician, but an extraordinarily talented one too. I met her a little over a year ago when she dined at Middlebury Park and then played the harp and the pianoforte at the request of Lord and Lady Darleigh. Unfortunately, there is no harp here, but Miss Debbins has agreed to play the pianoforte for us directly after we have all returned to the drawing room. After you have heard her, you will understand why I did not forget her but went back a month ago to beg her to do me the honor of marrying me. Though I hasten to add that it was not only her musical talent that drew me.”
He turned his head to smile down at Dora while laughter and applause rippled about the ballroom.
It was too late now to withdraw, she thought. But did she want to? She saw nothing but kindness and goodwill around her as she glanced about the room. She caught Flavian’s eye and he winked.
The duke left the ballroom early. Dora followed with her brother and sister-in-law and Ben—Sir Benedict Harper—who was walking determinedly with the aid of two specially made canes.
“You are very brave, Dora,” Louisa said, taking her arm. “But you are indeed talented. I am so very delighted for you. No one deserves happiness more.”
“I was privileged enough to be present for that recital last year,” Ben said. “I was too dim-witted, however, to realize that a romance was brewing.”
The drawing room had been transformed while they were having supper. Half the wall between it and the music room had been folded back, and chairs had been set up in both rooms, facing the opening, into which the pianoforte had been moved. The crowd looked much larger to Dora now than it had looked earlier. Almost everyone had taken a seat and looked expectantly toward the doorway, where the Duke of Stanbrook was awaiting her. He smiled and raised a hand for hers. He led her toward the instrument, and she seated herself and tried to compose her mind, her eyes upon the keyboard. Her hands felt clammy and a bit beset with pins and needles. The hush from both rooms seemed loud.
Then she set her hands on the keys and began to play a Beethoven sonata. For a few seconds her fingers did not seem willing to play the notes she knew so well, and her mind teemed with thoughts of everything except the music. And then she heard the melody and slipped inside it and created it anew through her fingers and hands. She did not lose touch with her surroundings. She knew she was at Stanbrook House, surrounded by a large number of people, some of whom were near and dear to her, most of whom had been strangers to her until tonight. She knew she was playing at the request of the Duke of Stanbrook. She knew she was doing something she had never done on such a scale before. But the person who was aware of those things seemed rather remote, someone she did not have to worry about until later. For at the moment the music claimed her.
She was startled at the volume of the applause after she had finished, at the sound of voices, at the scraping of chairs as her audience got collectively to its feet. She looked up, bit her lip, saw the duke standing in the doorway of the drawing room, his face beaming with pride, his hands clasped behind his back, and smiled.