“Ah, Miss MacLeod and Lord Dalhousie.” There was a slight pause, then Lady Mary said, “And Miss Balfour. I’m looking forward to this evening’s entertainment.”
Dahlia turned to find Lady Mary and Miss Stewart standing behind her. They curtsied as she turned, so she returned the favor. “Good evening.”
They smiled and murmured a return greeting. Since their battledore match Lady Mary had been
polite, but no more. So Dahlia was surprised when the taller lady offered a faint but encouraging smile. “Miss Balfour, I wish to speak to you.” She glanced at the others and hesitated, but then continued with a dogged air. “Miss Stewart feels that we owe you and Lord Kirk an apology. After some rather heated conversations, she has won me to her way of thinking.”
Miss Stewart added in a faintly husky tone, “The whole thing grew out of proportion very quickly. We didn’t mean any harm, either of us.”
Dahlia blinked. “I see. I assure you that you don’t need to—”
Lady Mary threw up a hand. “I do and I know it. I’m not very good at saying ‘I’m sorry,’ but allow me to do so now.” Lady Mary’s smile was stiff, but genuine regret shone clearly in her sharp gaze.
Dahlia smiled. “Of course. Allow me to say that I never intended for our little disagreement to become so public, either.”
“Neither did I.” Lady Mary picked up the program from the pianoforte, the candlelight catching the faint bruise that still discolored the bridge of her nose. “I see you are performing on the pianoforte. I look forward to hearing you play.”
“Thank you. I’m looking forward to hearing you sing.”
“I fear you’ll be sadly disappointed. I have no talent, you know. I’m only singing because Alayne—Miss Stewart—had to cancel due to a sore throat, and Lady Charlotte was determined to find a replacement.”
Dalhousie, who’d been idly riffling through the sheet music, drew back a little. “Miss Stewart, if you’re ill, it would be best if you’d confine yourself away from the rest of the duchess’s guests.”
Anne sent Dahlia a mischievous look. “Dalhousie fears illness worse than death.”
Miss Stewart chuckled, her voice noticeably hoarse. “Lord Dalhousie, I promise to stay far, far from you until I’m better.”
“Thank you, Miss Stewart. I, and my valet, who would have had to nurse me back to health, thank you.”
“You are quite welcome.”
“It’s a pity you won’t be singing,” Anne added. “I had the pleasure of hearing you sing at school, and you have a lovely voice.”
Miss Stewart blushed so red that she appeared to have been slapped. “Now I’m glad I’m not singing, for all of this praise would have made it too difficult to—” She coughed. “Excuse me, but—” She pulled a kerchief from her pocket and covered her mouth, coughing heavily the entire time.
Dahlia noted Miss Stewart’s flushed face and wondered if the poor woman had a fever. “Miss Stewart, perhaps you should ask the duchess to call her physician?”
“I’m fine. I shall berate my little brother when I go home, though. He was just beginning to cough and had a touch of fever when I left, and he insisted on a proper good-bye kiss.” She coughed again, too hard to speak.
Lady Mary threaded her arm through her friend’s. “Come, Alayne, let’s get you a glass of orgeat. That will do your throat the most good.” With a nod to the others, she started to lead her friend away when Dahlia stopped them.
“What! Miss Stewart dropped her handkerchief.” She picked it up and pressed it into Miss Stewart’s hand. “I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thank you, Miss Balfour. That’s very kind.” With a smile, Miss Stewart went with Lady Mary to the refreshment table, which had just been set up at the other side of the room.
“Poor thing,” Dahlia said. “She was quite flushed.”
“And all of that coughing!” Dalhousie waved a sheet of music in the air as if to blow away Miss Stewart’s illness. “I hope none of us succumbs.”
Anne frowned at him. “You are such a child when it comes to illness.”
“I’m cautious. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Anne turned back to Dahlia. “If Miss Stewart doesn’t feel better soon, then someone must put a word in the duchess’s ear about fetching her physician.”
“I’ll be sure to—”
Lady Charlotte clapped her hands, her lace cap fluttering about her round face. “Come, everyone! Pray sit! Her grace will say a few words about our evening’s entertainment, and then we will begin.”
Everyone wandered toward the chairs. Dalhousie procured seats for Anne and Dahlia, who sat to either side of him. As Dahlia watched the others take their
seats, she caught sight of Lord Kirk limping into the room, the last one to arrive.
His gaze swept the crowd and locked on to hers. For a long moment they gazed at each other, but then Lady Hamilton gestured for him to take the empty seat beside her. With obvious reluctance, he pulled his gaze from Dahlia and took the offered seat.
Dahlia pretended to listen to the story Dalhousie was telling Anne, but her attention was several rows back, fixed on Kirk. Was he still angry? She hoped not, but she had to admit that in the days after the match, the other guests had gone out of their way to be more solicitous. Too much so. Each time someone pulled his chair from the table or rushed to pick up something for him, she’d cringed. For a proud man, that attention must be onerous, and she reluctantly admitted it was partly her fault. The battledore match to defend his honor had painted him as incapable in some way.
Blast it, I never meant for that to happen.
Lady Charlotte pinged a silver spoon on the side of a wineglass. “Her grace is going to welcome us.”
MacDougal assisted her grace onto the raised hearth. Dressed in an evening gown of blue gauze, the bottom of her skirt finished with a triple band of mustard-colored silk that mirrored the mustard silk tabbed at her waist, she was the picture of fashion and good breeding.
She patted an errant curl that had loosened from her red wig as she smiled upon her guests. “Welcome! Tonight we celebrate the talents that are among us.
Many of you did not know this until now, but you were all carefully invited as guests based on your performance value.”
Many laughed at this, which made the duchess smile more brightly. She continued to expound upon the performances she expected from her guests, but Dahlia didn’t hear another word, for Dalhousie was now whispering.
“Good lord, he’s sitting directly behind us.”
“Who?” Dahlia asked.
“Kirk. He was sitting beside Lady Hamilton, but he just moved closer.”
Anne instantly craned her neck, but Dalhousie whispered a harsh “Don’t look!”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered back.
“I wonder if he’s actually going to perform”—Dalhousie squinted at the program—“a poem, after all.”
“He must or he wouldn’t be here,” Anne returned. “Dahlia, you know Kirk best. Do you think he’ll—”
To Dahlia’s relief, their conversation was interrupted by applause as the duchess finished her welcome speech. She curtsied gracefully, took MacDougal’s hand, and stepped off the “stage.”
With that, the performance was under way. Mrs. Selfridge opened with a sonata that was surprisingly good. That was followed by the reading of a passage by a solemn Viscount Dundee.
His chosen text was obviously a favorite of Lady Charlotte’s, for as the final word faded she leapt from
her chair, clapping furiously. “Excellent! Excellent! That’s
exactly
how I heard it in my own mind!”
Several more guests offered renditions of various poems and readings, and then Dahlia played her two pieces. She was aware the entire time of Kirk’s dark gaze upon her. Feeling flustered, and aware that she’d rushed through the last song until it sounded more like a Scottish reel than the graceful, elegant piece it should have been, Dahlia returned to her seat.
Next, Lady Mary sang her assigned song, often looking toward Miss Stewart for guidance during the more difficult portions. Though her face was damp and flushed, Miss Stewart rewarded her friend with the largest of smiles at the finish of the song.
It was really quite sweet, and put Dahlia back in charity with both of them.
Lord Dalhousie was next, reading the “improving text” selected by her grace. It was long winded, stilted, and totally without merit, especially when Dalhousie himself yawned in the midst of it. Finally finished, he took his seat to tepid applause.
Next was a reading of the balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet
, performed by Mr. and Mrs. MacLind, who did so with such exaggerated expressions that Dalhousie and Anne convulsed with laughter. Dahlia, aware of the glances sent their way, shushed them.
Finally, they came to the last performance of the evening: Lord Kirk’s. A collective rustle passed over the crowd as he went to the front of the room, and
Dahlia realized that the others were just as curious as she about his performance. It was hard to imagine such a usually taciturn and abrupt man reading a poem.
He conferred for a moment with Lady Charlotte, his dark head bent near hers. Her eyes widened as he spoke, and she looked at the duchess. At a nod from her grace, Lady Charlotte broke into a smile, and then nodded vigorously. To everyone’s surprise, she ordered a footman to douse half of the lights. And as the room gradually fell into semidarkness, the crowd’s murmur increased in excitement.
A footman went to stir the fire, but Kirk halted him with an upraised hand. “No. Pray leave it.” At the surprised look from the footman, Kirk added, “For ambience.”
“Ah, setting the stage, are you?” Lady Hamilton called out, looking amused.
“Indeed, madam.” He blew out a candle on a table near Miss Stewart. As he did so, their eyes met and she flushed an instant and deep red, and looked away, coughing into her kerchief.
Beside her, Lady Mary tsked, though she seemed amused. “Lud, Alayne, it’s just a poem.”
“But which poem?” Kirk asked. He held a candle before him and moved to the hearth as a hush fell over the crowd.
Dahlia found herself leaning forward, waiting for his first word.
He put his hand upon the mantel and turned slightly, his eyes meeting hers.
Instantly, her heart pounded against her throat.
“ ‘Sonnet to Genevra
.
’ ”
“Byron,” Anne said breathlessly.
“ ‘
Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe.’
” His deep voice was hushed, barely loud enough to be heard, yet it rolled as rich and deep as the ocean. “ ‘
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow.’
” His soft, deep voice seemed to stroke each word. “ ‘
And dazzle not thy gray-blue eyes—but oh! While gazing on them, sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother’s weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round Heaven’s airy bow.’
”
“Oh my,” Anne breathed.
Dahlia was not only leaning forward to catch each word, but also holding her breath, as if afraid to break the spell being woven around her. And a spell it was, for she could no more look away than she could stop living.
Kirk kept her gaze locked with his, as if each word were for her alone. “ ‘
For, though thy long, dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy gentleness gleams like a seraph from the sky descending.’ ”
The fire flickered over his face while the shadow hid his scars, and for a moment every person in the room was treated to how Kirk must have looked before the accident; a raw and pure masculine beauty. His eye and cheek unblemished, his mouth so sensual, so powerful, so—
“ ‘
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; at once such
majesty with sweetness blending.
’ ” He stepped forward away from the firelight, his lone candle’s light racing over his scar, a strike of lightning over his perfect face.
And his gaze never wavered from Dahlia’s as he finished, “ ‘
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
’ ”
As the last word faded into the silent room, only the hiss of the fire could be heard.
Dahlia couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Never had she heard a poem so beautifully read. Had there been no one else here, she would have thrown herself into his arms, demanding the kiss she’d been yearning for during the last few days with such desperate anticipation. Her body ached with desire.
The spell was broken as someone stood and clapped, and like a wave, it spread over the audience. Soon everyone was on their feet, clapping and calling, “Hear, hear!” “Bravo!” and “More! Read more!”
And still, Kirk stared into Dahlia’s eyes.
She could almost feel him tugging her closer with each word, each—
Lady Charlotte suddenly stood before Kirk, her hands held up to ask for quiet as the footmen began to relight the lamps and candles. “I’m certain Lord Kirk will read us another poem.” She looked over her shoulder at him hopefully.
“No. I cannot.” He walked from the stage and was instantly swarmed.
Dahlia noted the expressions of those all around him, how they now saw Kirk differently.
They see him now as I’ve always seen him: capable, strong, and beautiful.
An odd light entered her heart and she smiled, proud of him, though as enthralled and surprised as the others. He’d quoted a few lines of Byron the other day, but she’d never imagined he could recite with such deep understanding and emotion. Her mind buzzed with the words, the emotion, and the feelings he’d caused.
And during the reading, he’d looked directly at her as if he’d been talking to her alone. Over and over, she heard his voice caress the phrase,
I worship thee more, but cannot love thee less
. She pressed a hand to her thudding heart.
He loves me.
Her soul leapt with blinding joy, shocking her so much that she sat back down.
“Dahlia?”
She looked up to find Anne watching her with concern. Dahlia forced her trembling lips to smile. “I’m sorry, I was just lost in that poem. I love Byron.”
Anna sighed. “So do I.”
Dalhousie, who’d been talking to Mr. Ballanoch in the row in front of them about hunting tomorrow, made a face. “All women love Byron, but for the life of me, I don’t know why.”