Lois Menzel (11 page)

She ignored him and began where they had left off:

“Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup

And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.”

“More about kissing,” Jack said when she had finished. “It seems everything we read lately has to do with kissing. What was that line the other day? ‘Give me a kiss and to that kiss a score,’ and so on into the hundreds, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“And then there was that piece of Swift,” he continued. “How did it go?”

“ ‘Lord, I wonder what fool it was that first invented kissing!’ ” Anne quoted.

“Yes, that was it,” Jack agreed. “Have you ever noticed how much is written about kissing?”

Anne nodded. “I never thought much about it in classic literature, but even in novels there seems to be a great deal.”

“You read
novels
?” he asked.

“Your mother lent me several of hers.”

“My
mother
reads novels?”

“Yes. Should she not?”

“I suppose she may if she likes. I just never thought ... Why is it, do you think, that one can never imagine one’s parents being passionate? You know—kissing, and so forth?”

“I don’t know, but you are right. If I try to think of my father in that light ... it seems quite ridiculous. Though I must admit, I am not much of an authority on passion and such.”

“Nor am I.”

“You must at least know about kissing,” she insisted. “You have certainly done some.”

“Of course, I have ... some. Haven’t you?”

“No. None ... never. There was never anyone. At least, no one who ever tried.”

“Do you wish there had been?”

“Truthfully? Yes. It is rather depressing to read year after year about passion, kissing in particular, and not have the slightest notion what it’s like. It is even more disheartening to think I may live my whole life and never have the experience.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” he said.

“Why do you? I’m twenty-eight years old, Jack. I’m not likely to marry. So—”

“If you would like, I could.”

“Could what?”

“Kiss you.”

“Kiss me?”

“Yes, if you like. I’m not an expert, but I have done my share.” He moved his hand to the side of her face, gently tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “I think I should rather like to kiss you. It would be an honor. Could we dispense with these spectacles?” he asked, as he gently removed them and set them aside.

“I need them for reading—”

“We won’t be reading just now.”

Their eyes met as his fingers slid to cup her chin and turn her face up to his. His mouth was warm and tender, and she knew in that first instant that kissing deserved all the praise it received inside literature and out. It was wonderfully unique—an indefinable sensation unparalleled by anything she had ever experienced before. As her untrained lips parted beneath the pressure of his, his kiss deepened and his hands moved against her back, pulling her closer.

This idyll was brutally interrupted by Tenbury’s brusque voice from the doorway, “It’s past your bedtime, Jack, is it not?”

The couple drew apart. Neither of them spoke and Tenbury soon continued, “When I gave you freedom of the house, Miss Waverly, I did not expect you would forget your place in it.”

Jack rose to his feet, a flash of anger in his eyes. “There is no call for that remark, Nate. You have not the least notion of what is happening here.”

Tenbury answered with a sarcastic smile.
“Au contraire,
my dear brother. It is quite obvious.”

Anne rose to leave, knowing it would be impossible for her to voice a reasonable explanation of their behavior in the face of Tenbury’s disapproval. She had best leave it to Jack to explain.

 Jack took her arm to detain her. “You need not go.”

“I wish to.”

He smiled. “Very well. But don’t forget your book.”

As he held it out to her, she hesitated. “It is his lordship’s.”

“Tenbury won’t miss it,” Jack insisted. “Take it with you. I will see you tomorrow. I enjoyed our talk tonight.”

When she was gone, he turned on his brother. “Why do you treat her so? She is as well born as we.”

“Only on her father’s side. Her mother’s family included any number of dirty dishes. Truly, Jack, don’t you think she is a trifle old for you?”

“Are you interested in hearing an explanation of what you saw?” Jack parried.

“I am sure any explanation you had to offer would be vastly amusing, but I don’t need you to explain a scene a child could understand.”

Jack turned away and strode angrily toward the door. Tenbury’s next comment stopped him with his hand on the latch. “I only intend to say this once, Jack. I will not have any dependent under my roof abused, coerced, or deceived by a member of my family.”

Jack’s only answer was to slam the door, leaving his brother alone in the library.

What was Jack playing at? Tenbury wondered. Despite his warning, he had never considered his younger brother the kind of man who would take advantage of a governess’s vulnerable position within the household. But if not flirtation, then what? Could Jack’s intentions be honorable? Miss Waverly was four years older than Jack ... but still ... Tenbury could only hope that the Duke of Chadwicke would conclude this business promptly before the situation with Miss Waverly grew any more complex.

Chapter 9

The rain persisted through the night and into the next day. Arelia stopped in the schoolroom as Anne and Belinda were finishing their lessons.

“I should like you to bring Belinda to the drawing room tonight after dinner,” Arelia said. “Several of our guests have asked after her, so I thought she should put in an appearance. She need not stay long.”

“I shall be happy to bring her down. Is there anything special you would like her to wear?” Anne asked.

“Perhaps the pink, with the lace ruching?”

“She looks well in that,” Anne agreed.

Arelia soon left and made her way toward the housekeeper’s room via one of the narrow back stairways. On the first floor landing she paused, cocking her head to one side as she listened attentively. Barely perceptible strains of music drifted on the still air. Forgetting the housekeeper and the menus for the moment, Arelia moved down the corridor toward the little-used east wing of the Castle. The volume of the music increased as she advanced. It was soon discernible as a piano sonata, a piece unfamiliar to her, yet as beautiful as any she had ever heard.

She paused at the closed door of the room, not wishing to disturb the pianist. Yet as she listened to the well-executed piece, she became more and more curious to know which of her guests possessed such proficiency. She opened the door silently, regarding her son’s tutor with almost equal amounts of amazement and admiration.

Mr. Pierce was deeply immersed in his music, yet something made him glance up, then stop playing abruptly as he saw Mrs. Saunders standing there. He pushed back the bench and rose. Her lemon-yellow gown seemed to bring daylight into the darkly paneled room. He had the fanciful impression that her golden hair was itself a ray of sunshine.

She advanced immediately to protest. “No! Please don’t stop. It is marvelous! I have never heard it before.”

“It’s Mozart. A lesser-known piece.”

“And more difficult to play than some,” Arelia added. “Please sit down,” she encouraged. “I will sit myself, then you may be comfortable.” She perched on the edge of a nearby chair. “I would love to listen to the end. Unless you had rather not have an audience?”

One look at her appreciative face was enough to tell him she was sincere, so he reseated himself and picked up the piece where he had left off.

She sat silently. The one time he glanced at her she had her eyes closed, her head leaning back against the chair.

He finished with a flourish and, as the vibrations of the last chord died away, Arelia leaped to her feet, clapping her hands as an exuberant audience of one.

“Wonderful! Wonderful! What a splendid gift you have. Why have you never mentioned it? Do you come here often?”

Typically, Arelia’s comments and questions came too quickly for the listener to reply to them all. Mr. Pearce did as most people did in conversation with her—he answered the last question she asked.

“I have been coming a few days only, for I only recently learned from Miss Waverly that this instrument was here. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Of course not. Why should I mind? I only wish you would play in the drawing room where there would be more ears to hear you. You have only the mice for an audience here.”

“How can we know they are not appreciative?” he asked.

She smiled. “How, indeed? While I have the opportunity, I have been wishing to speak with you ... about Tom.”

“Yes?”

“I want to thank you for the miracle you have wrought in him, for it is little short of that, I assure you.”

“I don’t understand, ma’am.”

“I must tell you truthfully, sir, that I had little confidence you could do any better with Tom than all the others.”

“All the others?”

“The other tutors who came before you. Surely Tenbury told you of them?”

“His lordship told me he needed a tutor for his nephew. He said the boy had been sent down for a series of pranks and what the school termed an ‘uncooperative attitude.’ ”

“He did not tell you about the other tutors? How like Tenbury. There were six of them—six highly qualified men who could do nothing with Tom. They all quit; several informed me that my son was the most trying student they had ever encountered.”

“Lord Tenbury did say Tom was having difficulty accepting his father’s death ... that he refused to apply himself.”

“We kept him out of school more than six months after Henry died,” Arelia said. “Then he asked to go back, but he never settled in. This unusual behavior began ... the mischief ... so unlike him.”

“Grief is a strong emotion and can exhibit itself in many ways,” Pearce offered. “The period of mourning a loved one is different for everyone. What of you? Do you mourn your husband still?”

At first taken aback by the question, Arelia realized that somewhere in the midst of the conversation, Mr. Pearce had gone from tutor to clergyman. She found she did not mind as she tried to answer truthfully. “Yes. I suppose I do. I can talk about him now, with Jack and Tenbury, and the countess. I could not do so for a long time. Tenbury had to tell Tom and Belinda when the news first came. I could not do it. Could not bring myself to say the words ‘your father is dead.’ Even now, after all this time, they are still painful.”

She was looking down, clasping her hands tightly. He stepped close and said quietly, “Tom has those same feelings—loved his father as you did, misses him as you do. His belief that lives are wasted by war convinced him that his father had died in vain, that his life was forfeited with no reward. I think now that he is older, he is starting to understand why a soldier becomes a soldier, and why wars can be necessary. Perhaps that is why his attitude and his work are improving.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.

“Say the things you could not say three years ago. Tell him about the pain and the loss you feel, then perhaps he will share his feelings with you.”

She smiled at him, unshed tears making her blue eyes glisten. “You have given me good advice; I shall try to follow it. I will leave you now so you may return to your music. Perhaps I can come another time ... to listen.”

He nodded as he walked her to the door. “Please do. You are always welcome.”

Arelia walked down the corridor until it turned. Then she stopped and waited. Within a few moments Mr. Pearce began to play again. This piece was much different from the last—slow and melancholy; Arelia did not recognize the composer.

* * * *

When the gentlemen had joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner, Anne brought Belinda down to formally meet the guests. She had helped Cassie dress the child carefully in the frock Arelia suggested. In the bright pink dress, with her blond curls bouncing against her back, Belinda looked delightful. Anne dressed herself in the best gown she owned, the burgundy muslin Mrs. Saunders had purchased for her.

By this time, Anne recognized most of the house guests. She took Belinda to Arelia’s side, relieved to see that Lady Mason, who had such uncomplimentary things to say about both children and governesses, was on the far side of the large room.

While Lord Wilmington, a particular friend of Arelia’s, engaged Belinda in conversation, Anne took time to observe the other guests. They were all dressed formally, the ladies in richly colored evening gowns, the men in dark coats and knee breeches. In her simple gown, Anne felt plain indeed.

Lady Constance, who had used Anne’s horse without permission, was stunning in deep blue satin. The three men clustered about her appeared to hang on her every word.

Lord Tenbury, dressed in severe black and white, sat beside Miss Pauline Redditch, the youngest and most appealing of Arelia’s three candidates for the position of future Countess of Tenbury. The earl’s mother was seated near the hearth, where a small fire had been kindled to chase away the dampness of the evening. Since Arelia had taken Belinda in hand, Anne excused herself and went to greet her ladyship.

“Sit with me, Anne,” Lady Tenbury invited. “I so enjoy your company.”

While the countess chatted, and Anne supplied an occasional response, she stole another look at Lord Tenbury. Something about him tonight drew her eyes. He was as handsome as ever, his clothes fitting his form to perfection. His blond head in the candlelight glowed tawny, while his pleasant smile appeared often for the young lady at his side.

Anne then transferred her gaze to Miss Redditch. If the petite brunette could capture the heart of the elusive earl, she would be a fortunate woman.