Mary sat at her beloved pianoforte and absently picked out a tune while listening to her companion discuss the rout they had attended the previous evening. For reasons that escaped Mary, Olivia had apparently found the evening highly entertaining. Mary had been bored.
"Did Sir Henry tell you about his recent travels to the West Indies?" Olivia asked, comfortably ensconced on the brocade-covered sofa near one of the two large windows overlooking the street below. Her workbag was carelessly tossed at her side. She did not look up from her embroidery. "He is considering purchasing a sugar plantation there. Would it not be lovely to travel to such exotic locations?"
Mary gave a deep sigh. Sir Henry Lambton had clearly piqued Olivia's interest. She had mentioned him no less than a dozen times this morning. A middle-aged widower with two young daughters, the man was obviously on the lookout for a new wife. Mary sincerely hoped Olivia was not getting any ideas.
She stopped playing and looked across at her friend, who was bent over her embroidery hoop. "Olivia, you are not setting your cap for Sir Henry, are you?"
Olivia looked up with a startled expression. "Me?"
"For if you are, I take leave to tell you that you could do so much better for yourself, my dear. Sir Henry is a dead bore."
Olivia gave a disparaging little sniff and returned her attention to her needlework. "He seemed a nice enough gentleman. But I assure you, I am not setting my cap for him. I only thought that perhaps you—"
"I am glad to hear it," Mary interrupted. "If I thought you were seriously considering marrying again, I could recommend several other gentlemen who would be much more interesting than Sir Henry." She paused as a wicked thought crossed her mind. "Only look at how attentive Mr. Maitland has been." She had to smile at the furious look her companion directed at her embroidery. "Now there's an interesting man for you, Olivia."
"Mary, please."
She studied her friend closely as she stabbed viciously at the stretched silk. "Olivia! You are blushing!"
"Hush, Mary. You are being ridiculous."
"Am I?"
Olivia shot Mary an imploring look, then bent her head over the embroidery hoop as she continued to ply her needle. Suddenly she gave a startled squeak and brought a finger to her mouth. "Blast!" she muttered as she studied her pricked finger.
Mary had only been teasing, but had she in fact struck a sensitive nerve? They had only met Mr. Maitland on two occasions: at the opera two nights ago, and yesterday when he took her and Olivia for a drive in the park. Mary had liked him at once. He reminded her of Jack. During both occasions, though, he had been especially solicitous of Olivia. Mary had dismissed his behavior as no more sincere than that of his nephew. The two of them had enough charm between them to coax all the birds from all the trees in all the parks of London. Surely Olivia had not taken him seriously?
But perhaps Mary had misread his attentions. Olivia was a very attractive woman, after all. Mary had no idea what sort of conversation the two of them had shared at the opera. Jack had kept her too busy with his own silly flirtation for her to pay much attention the other couple. The few times she had glanced over at them, however, she had noticed Olivia smiling and apparently enjoying herself. Oh, dear. Could it be that … could they have …
"Olivia, is there something you have not told me?"
Olivia looked up from wiping her finger with a scrap of linen, a puzzled expression marking her brow. "I beg your pardon?"
"About you and Mr. Maitland, I mean. You seemed very cozy together at the opera, and he could scarce keep his eyes off you yesterday in the Park. Have you two formed an attachment?"
"Dear heaven!" Olivia exclaimed. Her outraged tone was somewhat offset by the blush that crept up her neck all the way to her hairline.
"What a foolish notion" She did not look at Mary, but instead busied herself with adjusting the fabric in the embroidery hoop. "The very idea! For one thing, I hardly know the man. For another, he is a rake and, like your friend Lord Pemerton, a consummate flirt. He flirts with me. That is all. There is nothing more to it than that."
As Jack flirts with me, Mary thought wistfully.
Apparently satisfied with the new position of the painted silk, Olivia began rummaging through her workbag and finally pulled out a skein of green silk thread. She moistened the end of the silk and, turning around slightly toward the sunlight streaming in through the window behind, rethreaded her needle. She then looked up at Mary with a determined tilt to her chin. "Unlike you, my dear, a gazetted rake holds no appeal for me." She then bent back over her embroidery, plying tiny green stitches with intense deliberation. Her face, however, Mary was quick to notice, was still colored with a rosy blush.
Mary was not by nature a matchmaker. Her project to find Jack a bride was entered into on a whim, as a source of diversion. And though it looked as if she might be making progress in that quarter—Jack seemed to have shown a marked partiality for Miss Carstairs—she would not willingly attempt such a project again. It had all been too confusing, with Jack showing a preference for the least likely candidates while cavalierly dismissing the most obvious.
But the very idea of Olivia and Edward Maitland was almost enough to change her mind about matchmaking. There had been a spark of something between them, she was sure of it. There needed only a bit of kindling to ignite it.
It was almost irresistible.
"It is true," she said, turning back to the pianoforte and picking out a tune in an attempt at nonchalance, "that Mr. Maitland has a reputation as a rake. But he is older and more mature now. The wild days of his youth are surely long past."
Olivia continued to ply her needle with silent intensity.
"Nevertheless," Mary continued, "he is still quite attractive, is he not?"
"I suppose so," was the muttered reply.
"And so very charming and witty. Do you not agree, my dear?"
"If you say so," Olivia said in a voice so soft Mary had stopped playing in order to hear.
Mary was prevented from pursuing this very interesting discussion by the sound of voices in the hall. She was not normally at home to callers on Wednesdays, so she was extremely curious to know who it might be. Her eyes were trained on the double doors when they were swung open by the butler. When she spied a familiar figure behind him, she was filled with an unexpected thrill of excitement. Her face broke into a huge smile.
"His Lordship, the Marquess of Pemerton," the butler announced. "And Mr. Edward Maitland."
Mary was only vaguely aware of the sound of embroidery hoops clattering to the floor as she rose to meet her guests.
* * *
Jack smiled as his eyes caught Mary's. She had risen from the bench at the pianoforte and was moving across the small drawing room toward him with an outstretched hand.
"Jack!" she exclaimed with flattering enthusiasm. "And Mr. Maitland. How lovely."
Jack took her proffered hand and brought it to his lips, then turned it over and placed a quick kiss on her palm. Her eyes flashed with amusement. After she had turned to greet his uncle, Jack took her arm and led her back toward the pianoforte. He noticed, out of the comer of his eye, that Uncle Edward was helping Mrs. Bannister to retrieve something—sewing articles or some such thing—from the floor where they had apparently fallen and scattered.
"I hope you do not mind our dropping by like this, unannounced," Jack said. "But we were in the vicinity and, since it is not Tuesday, I thought it safe to call."
Mary gave a throaty chuckle. "You are quite safe," she said. "No other callers are expected. And you must know, Jack, that you are always welcome. Olivia and I had just about exhausted our store of amusing conversation, so your timing is quite perfect."
"You were playing?" He nodded toward the pianoforte, noting for the first time what a particularly beautiful instrument it was, with a satinwood case inlaid with rosewood in a rambling floral pattern. It must have been a very expensive piece. Jack chastised himself for not noticing it before; it was almost the only outward sign of Mary's wealth.
"Just dabbling," she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Nothing serious."
Jack had not considered Mary's music when developing his plan for the morning. But now that he thought on it, it might be just the thing to encourage the proper mood. Yes, just the thing. "Will you play for us now?" he asked, indicating that she should be seated on the pianoforte bench.
"Now?"
"Jack has told me of your skill, Lady Mary," said his quick-thinking Uncle Edward, now sharing the sofa with a blushing— blushing?—Mrs. Bannister. "It would be an honor to have you play for us."
Mary turned back to Jack with a questioning look.
"Please, Mary. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to listen to your sweet music." He took her hand to his lips once again.
"All right," she said, laughing. "It is my greatest pleasure as well. What would you like to hear?"
Jack bent over the stack of sheet music piled on the edge of the instrument and searched through the top few selections. His eyes were drawn to a score handwritten in a fine, spidery scrawl. "What is this?" he asked.
"Oh," Mary said as she took the score and fondly thumbed through it, "it is a Scarlatti sonata transcribed for the pianoforte."
"Your own transcription?"
"Yes."
Jack was genuinely impressed. "Then you must certainly play it for us," he said. "Shall I turn the pages for you?"
"You read music?" she asked with a teasing grin.
"I am not totally without accomplishments, my dear."
"Very well, then," she said and settled in to play.
Jack had heard Mary play on two previous occasions and had been struck both by her technique and her passion. She seemed almost to lose herself in the music, which played nicely into his plans for the morning. He would need to catch her off guard if everything was to go according to plan.
Once again, he was impressed by Mary's performance. She was truly gifted, he thought, watching her small hands fly across the keyboard in a skillful interpretation of the complex baroque patterns. He lifted his eyes to her face, expecting fierce concentration, and found instead an almost peaceful contentment. It had been no jest, then, that this was her greatest pleasure. Though he turned the pages for her, she seldom actually looked at the score, often closing her eyes, her body swaying gently to the melody.
When her fingers at last stilled on the final chord, she sat quietly for a moment, breathing deeply, her eyes half closed. Clearly she had forgotten the presence of her audience.
Jack bent slightly over her. "Beautiful," he whispered.
She suddenly came alert, looking up at Jack and smiling. The sound of gentle applause came from the other side of the room.
"Wonderful!" Uncle Edward said with enthusiasm. "Wonderful." He turned to look at Mary's companion, who was smiling fondly at her employer. "Do you not agree, Mrs. Bannister?"
"I have lived with Lady Mary for three years," she said, "and have never ceased to be impressed by her talent. I am most fortunate to be so often an audience."
While they spoke, Jack had seated himself at Mary's side on the bench. She had grinned and moved over to allow him room. When Uncle Edward turned to make some remark to Mrs. Bannister, Jack tilted his head down toward Mary's and placed his lips close to her ear.
"I must speak with you in private," he said in a soft whisper. "It is very important."
Her eyes widened, sparkling in expectation, and a huge smile split her face. "Is it—"
He interrupted her with a finger to his lips. "In private." Her smile grew even broader, if that was possible. In a flash of insight he knew what she was thinking. She expected him to announce his formal intentions, or even a betrothal, to Miss Carstairs or one of the other candidates. He could almost feel her excitement, her giddiness, as she seemed almost to bounce right off the bench. He gave her a stern look. She nodded and turned, with the greatest equanimity, toward the sofa across the room.
"Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Maitland," she said. "I am glad you enjoyed it. Music is my greatest passion, you know. But I have others as well. For example, I share an interest with Olivia in exotic plants. We have quite a collection, do we not, Olivia?"
"Yes, we do," Mrs. Bannister said with a somewhat puzzled look.
"Our small conservatory boasts several rare specimens," Mary said, favoring Uncle Edward with her most engaging smile. "Perhaps you would be interested in seeing them, sir?"
Jack tossed his uncle a pleading look. He knew of Jack's plans and had in fact been invited along for the express purpose of somehow removing the ubiquitous companion from the scene. Uncle Edward had accepted his task with unexpected enthusiasm. Mary's suggestion simply made the job easier. Uncle Edward was quick to take advantage.
"Indeed," he said rising, "I would be pleased to view your collection. Can you spare Mrs. Bannister for a few moments, if she will agree to accompany me?"
"Of course," Mary said. "Jack and I will await you here. Perhaps I will play another piece for him." She smiled at Jack and he nodded.
Uncle Edward offered his arm to Mrs. Bannister who looked as if she were being asked to dance naked down St. James's Street. A deep scarlet blush colored her entire face. Eyes cast down, fingers barely touching Uncle Edward's sleeve, she directed him, with obvious reluctance, out of the drawing room and toward the conservatory.
Once alone, Mary was again bursting with excitement. "Tell me!" she demanded, grasping his arm.
Jack studied the situation for a moment and decided he needed to recapture the languorous calm that had followed her playing.
"In due time," he said. "First, I would like you to play for me once more."
"Jack!" she shrieked with impatience.
He definitely needed to soften the mood. "Mary, my sweet," he said in his most seductive tone, "indulge me. I do not often have the pleasure of hearing you play. You must know your talent is extraordinary. One more piece. Please, Mary."
She furrowed her brow and wrinkled her nose in frustration, then heaved a profound sigh. "All right, if you insist. What shall it be, then?"
"You choose, my dear."
She sifted through the sheet music, discarding several before pulling one out and setting it on the music stand. "This is a new sonata by Herr Beethoven," she said. "I think it is quite lovely. Shall I play the adagio for you?"
"Yes, my dear, if you please."
As before, she was soon lost to the music. The slow, haunting melody seemed to engulf her with its passion. Her mobile face evoked all the sadness, the wretchedness, the longing, and finally the rapture of the music. Jack could not say for certain whether the emotional power of the piece came solely from the notes laid down by the composer, or from Mary's own intensity of expression. He was moved in a way he had not thought possible.
But throughout, he never lost sight of his ultimate goal. The particular ardor of the piece—how fortunate that Mary had selected one by the passionate Herr Beethoven—set the mood perfectly for what he hoped would follow.
When she played the final notes and slowly slid her hands from the keyboard, it was obvious she was still absorbed by the emotion of the music: head thrown back, eyes half closed, lips slightly parted. She was breathing heavily. Before she could overcome her rapt state, Jack made his move.
He quickly pulled her onto his lap and clasped her tightly to his chest. "Mary, Mary," he said softly, gazing down into her eyes, suddenly wide with confusion, "you are so vibrant, so full of passion. Ever since we first met, I have tried to resist you, my dear. I can do so no longer."
He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her.