Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince (14 page)

Meg passed between a cluster of hanging vines and froze, then she turned quickly toward him, and their eyes locked.

Rodrigo realized that he was standing with his head tipped and an idiotic smile upon his face. He straightened up and began to construct an apology, just now realizing how bad-mannered it was to sneak upon a lady and watch her without her knowledge; but Meg’s expression stopped him.

Her face relaxed into a relieved expression. “Carlo, I am so glad you are here.”

He raised his brows and allowed his mouth to curve into a smile. He’d not expected that.

“I am attempting to memorize a poem to perform tomorrow. I thought I knew it better than I do.” The crease appeared above her nose, and she looked up at him with large eyes. “Will you help me?”

She had no idea of the power in her expression. He would have done anything she asked when she looked at him that way.

“Of course.” He held out his hand for the book.

She opened it to the page her finger had been marking and handed it to him.

Rodrigo read the poem’s title. “Christabel?”

“Do you know it?” she asked.

“I am afraid I do not know very much English poetry. But this Christabel, she is Spanish?”

Meg shook her head. “Coleridge left her nationality deliberately ambiguous, I think.”

“And it is very lengthy,” Rodrigo said, turning the pages. “How much of it are you planning to learn?”

“Part the first,” she said.

He found the passage, and he couldn’t help but be surprised at the length of the section.

“I think I know most of it. Can I start at the beginning?”

Rodrigo turned back to the first page of the poem. He sat upon a bench and nodded to indicate that he was ready.

Meg took a deep breath, relaxed her shoulders and began.

“’Tis the middle of the night by the castle clock,

And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;

Tu-whit! Tu-woo!

And hark, again . . .”

Rodrigo listened, enthralled as Meg recited the poem. He occasionally prompted her with a word she had forgotten, but she remembered the majority of it. And her delivery was fascinating.

She told the story of Christabel as if the words were her own. They flowed naturally from her. Her stance was confident, her voice rising and falling with the narration. Her love of poetry and her understanding of the tale was evident as her face shone.

Rodrigo could not believe an English Gothic narrative poem could make his heart start racing and his throat go dry. But he knew it was not the words that had such an effect on him; it was the young lady who said them and the passion she put into her delivery.

When Meg finished, Rodrigo was completely tongue-tied, too caught up in her performance to speak. Meg stood, waiting for his appraisal, and her confidence appeared to shrink when he did not say anything.

He stood and rushed to reassure her. “Margarita, it was . . . I do not have the words. You were
maravillosa
. I do not think you have anything to worry about tomorrow. You will be the sensation of the musicale.”

“Truly?” Meg bit her lip uncertainly. “Do you think Christabel was a good selection?”

“Truly.” He took her hand. “The story is wonderful, especially when it is you telling it. I cannot believe you have committed the entire thing to memory.” He tightened his fingers around hers, pulling her closer. “Although, I still think Christabel is Spanish.”

She smiled and tipped her head. “Poetry is meant to be interpreted by the reader. If you would like Christabel to be Spanish, I do not think Mr. Samuel Coleridge would begrudge your analysis.” Meg’s eyes glinted in a way he had come to recognize as an indication that she was teasing. She pulled her hand from his and tapped her finger on her chin. “I certainly could believe Geraldine to be Spanish.”

“The wicked one?” Rodrigo placed his palm over his heart as if he were wounded. “How could you say such a thing?”

“Is she wicked?” Meg pursed her lips. “I think just misunderstood.”

Rodrigo cupped his hand beneath her elbow and led her toward the bench. He pulled her down to sit next to him. “Joking aside, why did you choose this poem?”

Meg’s face turned serious, and the little crease appeared above her nose. “I suppose I relate to the two women.” She shrugged. “I think every person strives to be perfect like Christabel, but we fall short. I believe Geraldine wants to be virtuous. She wears a white robe to hide her blemish; she tries to behave like Christabel. Maybe because she wants to please everyone else.” Her eyes moved from his to the stones of the greenhouse floor. “It is difficult to hide oneself beneath the expectations everyone else creates.”

“And this is why you chose to recite a poem at the musicale.”

Meg nodded, folding her arms. “I only hope when the time comes that I am brave enough to go through with it.”

“Are you suggesting that
mi compañera de aventura
lacks courage? I do not believe it.”

Meg sighed. “I just wish you could come tomorrow. I wouldn’t be so nervous if you were there.” The moment the words left her mouth, Meg’s face paled and then filled with color. “I am sorry, Carlo. I did not mean . . .” She rubbed her hand up and down her arm.

He squinted his eyes in confusion. What had upset her?

Meg looked up at him through her lashes. “I spoke without thinking. I really did not mean to say something so rude or to imply . . .”

At once he understood. He had forgotten she thought he was a servant. Of course she had considered it an insult to remind him that he was not welcome among the
ton
. And knowing that this distressed her touched him. He was again surprised at the effect Meg’s concern had on him.

Meg reached over and pressed her palm on his cheek. “Please do not allow my words to upset you.”

Rodrigo was finding it difficult to hold any thought in his head as Meg’s soft skin pressing against his face seemed to be the most important thing currently happening in the world. “Do not worry yourself, Margarita. I have no wish to mingle with the aristocracy.” He certainly did not misrepresent himself in that statement. “I am not offended—quite the opposite, in fact.” He took her hand and held it in both of his. “I find it very pleasing to know that you desire my company.”

Meg looked up at him, and for a moment he thought she might say something. Finally she glanced at the greenhouse windows. “I suppose I should dress for supper before I am missed.” She pulled her hand from his grasp and stood.

He stood with her and caught her hand again. Lifting it to his lips, he brushed a kiss over her fingers and heard Meg’s swift intake of breath. “I wish you
buena suerte
, good luck, tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Carlo.” Meg kept her eyes lowered as she turned and hurried from the greenhouse. The enchanting blush had returned to her cheeks. And Rodrigo felt immense satisfaction that his action had put it there.

He was still smiling a moment later as he left the greenhouse and walked toward the stable. But a sight stopped him short.

Meg was walking up the path to the front entrance to the castle, and Lord Featherstone approached her. She curtsied, and he nodded his head slightly. Although Rodrigo could not hear them, he could tell they were exchanging pleasantries. Lord Featherstone gestured toward the book Meg held, and she hesitated briefly before extending it toward him.

The earl took the book of poetry and glanced at it. Even from a distance, Rodrigo could see the man’s disapproval as he returned it to Meg and then offered his arm. She took the book, slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and walked toward the castle.

It was only a short walk, but Lord Featherstone did not give Meg a chance to speak the entire distance. Rodrigo could see that she nodded and maintained a pleasant countenance, but her shoulders drooped slightly and she seemed to withdraw into herself.

Rodrigo’s heart dropped. He could not help but think of the light in Meg’s eyes and the confident way she had delivered her poem. Her entire being had appeared more alive and vibrant. But as he’d seen Lord Featherstone speak to her, undoubtedly demeaning her love of poetry and reading, Meg had appeared to wilt. It surprised Rodrigo how the sight pained him, and he could think of nothing more important than figuring out how to ensure that she never lost the enthusiasm he had seen in the greenhouse. Without it, he feared the Meg he had grown so fond of would fade away completely.

He gritted his teeth, wishing he could ensure that Meg never lost what made her Meg, but he felt as powerless to help her as he was to help himself.

Meg’s hand tightened on Daniel’s arm, and she gasped as they entered the Harrisons’ ballroom. The room was filled with people. She had not imagined so many ladies and gentlemen lived in Southampton.

“You will be splendid,” Daniel murmured to her, even though his eyes were roaming the room, no doubt assessing the attractive young ladies.

On one end of the ballroom, a raised stage held a pianoforte and a harp. Rows of chairs faced the stage. Daniel followed the Poulters down the aisle, seating Meg next to Lady Vernon.

The countess must have seen the worry on Meg’s face. She patted her arm. “Don’t worry, you look lovely, dear. And your music . . . ah, well, you have prepared as well as you could, so do not be dismayed on that account.”

Meg did agree with Lady Vernon on one point. She felt beautiful. She completely adored her gown. Thanks to the urgent change of wardrobe brought about by Serena’s apricot dress, Meg wore a white silk gown with gathered lace at the elbows and long white gloves. A honey-colored sash tied around her waist matched perfectly with the amber pendant at her throat.

She was especially pleased with the way Bessie had arranged her hair. The majority of her locks were twisted and fastened atop her head, with cascades of loose curls escaping to hang at her neck and on her shoulders.

Daniel stood at the end of the row of chairs, waiting for Helen and Lucinda to be seated, but before he could take his place, Lord Featherstone sat in the seat next to Meg.

Daniel smiled at her, raising his brows.

Meg looked at her brother with an even gaze until he looked away, shaking his head.

“Miss Margaret,” Lord Featherstone said, fixing his brilliant blue eyes on her. “Have I told you how extremely beautiful you look this evening?”

“Thank you, my lord. And yes, you did tell me, before we left the castle, and once in the carriage, and—”

“But a lady does not tire of flattering remarks, does she?” he said smugly, stroking his whiskery lip and adjusting the lace cuffs that splayed elegantly from his jacket sleeves.

Meg wouldn’t have thought that a lady would tire of compliments about her appearance until Lord Featherstone had spoken them so often that they had lost their sincerity. Was it too much to ask for him to occasionally notice her character or intelligence? She shuffled the pages of sheet music around on her lap.

“Do not make yourself uneasy about your deficiency of musical skill,” the earl said. “My sisters have warned me it is not your strong suit.”

“My lord, if you are trying to set me at ease—”

“Just remember that your appearance is every bit as important as any talent, and you are not lacking where that is concerned.” He shook his head affectionately, and Meg employed every bit of self-control she possessed to manage a small smile, though she could not convince her eyes to participate in the expression.

She turned toward Lady Vernon, hoping that she might at least be saved from Lord Featherstone’s condescension by entering into conversation with the countess, but Lady Vernon was laughing with Lady Featherstone. After spending over a week with the two women, Meg knew there would be no chance of intruding on their discussion.

Meg straightened the papers in her lap once again as she looked around the room. What had she been thinking? These people were all elegant and refined. She didn’t fit among them, and she certainly would not impress the
ton
with her nonconformist exhibition. Why had she ever thought it would be a good idea?

The performances began, and Meg’s despair grew. Each young lady seemed to be more talented than the one before. They were graceful and sophisticated, and every one played or sang beautifully.

Meg wondered if she should feign a stomachache to be spared what would certainly be a humiliation not only to her but to Lady Vernon and the duke as well. It would not take much effort to pull it off, since she was very close to losing what little bit of supper she had managed to swallow.

Another young lady stepped onto the stage and sat, arranging her skirts and then pulling the harp to her shoulder. She began to play, and Meg’s eyes moved around the ballroom. She sat up, just now becoming aware of the other spectators. She had been so concerned with her upcoming debacle that she had not noticed that most of the audience was not paying any attention to the performance. They whispered to each other or looked around the room. Was everybody bored?

She was still pondering the implications of her discovery when Helen’s name was announced. As her friend scooted past, Meg squeezed her hand and then watched the crowd. While Helen made her way to the stage, the entire room was silent and every eye was on her. Ladies craned their necks to get a better view, and gentlemen sat taller in their seats, studying her, but as soon as she began to play, conversations resumed and attentions turned away from the stage. Meg could not believe it. Helen was the most gifted performer of the night, and if
she
could not keep the interest of the audience, then Meg didn’t have anything to worry about. She didn’t need to impress these people with her talent. She would give a completely unremarkable musical performance, and it would not matter in the least.

Meg felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulder. An albatross, just like in
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
. But the thought stopped her as the poem came to her mind. Her heart began to pound again. She had been so certain yesterday when she had rehearsed with Carlo. But Lord Featherstone’s manner as he dismissed her poetry as trivial had opened the door to doubt. And now she possessed the knowledge that she could do the safe thing, banging out a few chords and melodies that nobody would notice, and then escape, leaving none the wiser as to her abandoned radical plan.