“How brave of you to join us, Lady Vanessa,” the marchioness declared in the hearty tone of someone who has never been sick a day in her life. “We were told you did not participate in household activities.”
I had to purse my lips to keep from leaping to Vanessa’s defense.
“A thing of the past, as you see,” Vanessa said to Lady Rothbury with far more graciousness than this highly personal remark deserved. “My dear Penny,” she continued with a glance in my direction, “has routed me out of my sloth and forced me, willy nilly, back into the world.”
I blinked. The Durrants, all three, turned to stare at me. Somehow I managed a taut smile.
“Such a dreadful accident,” Lady Jocelyn murmured, eyes wide with what appeared to be genuine sympathy.
“But such a quaint chair,” Lady Daphne offered. “Was it made locally?”
“By a family friend,” Vanessa returned so sweetly I feared my ears must be deceiving me. “Mr. David Tremaine, without whose help I would be lost.”
Seated where I was, I clearly saw David’s ears turn pink. Fortunately, the marchioness and her daughters remained oblivious to the fact that the chair’s creator was in the room.
“You have maintained your skill at repartee, it would seem,” the marchioness remarked with an undercurrent of venom I had no difficulty detecting. “Norvelle seemed quite charmed at dinner.”
“I can take no credit, my lady. Lord Norvelle is a true gentleman. And expert conversationalist.”
“And you, miss,” Lady Rothbury declared, turning to me, “I take it you are the companion so praised by Lady Vanessa.”
“I am the companion,” I returned as meekly as I could manage. “Miss Ballantyne.”
“Of the Leicestershire Ballantynes?”
“I believe my father had relatives there, my lady, but we are no longer in touch. My father was a military man, you see, and my mother and I followed wherever he went. I fear I am more familiar with India, Portugal, and Spain than I am with my own country.”
Lady Jocelyn startled me by clapping her hands and declaring, “Oh, how delightful! You must tell us all about it.”
Lady Rothbury, however, looked at me as if I had suddenly grown two heads. “You followed the drum?”
“Yes, my lady. Until my parents died and I returned to England in August.”
The marchioness drew a deep breath—I swear her nose fairly quivered with outrage as she said, “And Hycliffe considered a girl raised in the army to be a suitable companion?”
My hold on my temper began to fray. “My father was a colonel in the cavalry, ma’am.”
Vanessa, grasping at the classic rules of hostessing to rescue the situation, quickly inserted, “Our pianoforte is recently tuned. Perhaps Lady Daphne and Lady Jocelyn will play for us.”
“And you?” Lady Rothbury returned, accepting the change of subject. “I seem to recall you played rather well the last time we visited Moorhead Manor.”
Vanessa played the piano? Why had no one mentioned it?
“I fear it is a skill I have allowed to lapse, my lady. Now that I am up and about more frequently, perhaps I shall consider taking it up again.”
My whoosh of relief at Vanessa’s calm response was almost loud enough to be audible. A quick glance at David revealed that he, too, was amazed at Vanessa’s forbearance. I suspected we all might suffer from her temper in the morning.
Lady Daphne suggested that her sister begin the evening’s entertainment, and I instantly knew why. Lady Daphne would prefer to demonstrate her skill on the pianoforte when the gentlemen were present. And, truthfully, who was I to blame her? It was all part of the great matchmaking game. For a young woman of Lady Daphne’s station in life there was no future but marriage. The best marriage she could possibly make. Though three eligible bachelors lived at Moorhead Manor, for Lady Daphne there was but one goal. Robert, Lord Exmere. The heir.
Inwardly, I sighed. I had been so worried about how Vanessa would manage guests that I had failed to anticipate the possible problems for myself. Comfortably settled in, almost one of the family, I had not been prepared to be set back so firmly into the questionable social niche of companion.
Pride, abominable pride. The daughter of the regiment had come a cropper in an English drawing room.
Lady Jocelyn played with all the precise enthusiasm of a well-taught young lady just emerging from the schoolroom. A bit too mechanical, a few stumbles over which she blushed quite prettily, but with an overall pleasure in her accomplishment for which I could not fault her. The truth was, the more I saw of Lady Jocelyn, the more I liked her. No wonder she had charmed Huntley at dinner.
Lady Daphne got her wish. Just as Jocelyn relinquished the piano bench, the gentlemen joined us. I was tempted to applaud Lady Daphne’s sinuous grace as she made the most of traversing the room, pausing in the middle of her journey to drop a curtsy to the gentlemen, before continuing to the pianoforte. Needless to say, the men settled quickly and gave her their complete attention. Shoving uncharitable thoughts to the back of my mind, I sat up straight, pasted a look of polite attention on my face, and attempted to appear as if I were enjoying the concert, even though her sparkling performance made me grit my teeth and forced me to acknowledge that I was not immune to that green monster, jealousy.
Lady Daphne performed short pieces by Bach and Hayden, with the clockwork precision those composers demanded, followed by the last movement of Beethoven’s more recent composition, “Quasi una fantasia,” a piece so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes. Or possibly they were as much tears of humiliation as admiration, for I myself could not play a note.
Truthfully, Lady Daphne was superb, and I wanted to sink, for I had a horrid feeling I knew what was coming next.
And, of course, it did.
When the barrage of applause had finally faded, Lady Daphne rose, stood perfectly poised in the curve of the full-length pianoforte, and said, “Lady Vanessa has told us that she must resume her practice regimen before she can perform, but perhaps Miss Ballantyne will favor us with a tune or two?” Her limpid gaze skewered me, as if to say: I dare you, you dolt.
I held my head high, though my stomach churned, as I said, “I regret, my lady, that the tail of an army was no place to learn the pianoforte. But even if I did play, I assure you I would not have the temerity to follow such a superb performance.”
As Lady Daphne inclined her head and offered me a rather smug smile to acknowledge the compliment, a voice said, “Penny sings beautifully, however. Quite a capella and most sweetly.”
Vanessa! How could she?
“No, no,” I protested. “Merely songs of the people. I am not at all trained in bel canto or any songs suitable for the drawing room.”
“You have sung many lovely songs for me,” Vanessa insisted. “Please, Penny, do me the favor of allowing others to hear you sing.” There was a general murmur of agreement from the gentlemen, although I read nothing but gleeful anticipation of me making a fool of myself on the faces of the three Durrant ladies.
It wasn’t as if I’d never sung in company before, but whether my songs had been sung at the end of a ranking officers’ dinner or around a campfire, it had all been a long time ago. In a very different world than an earl’s drawing room in the north of Devonshire. But I had not been reared to be faint-hearted when a challenge was thrown my way. With seeming calm, I took my place in the curve of the grand piano.
“The Riddle Song” was always a favorite, and quite innocuous, so that is how I began. I grasped the pitch in my head and sang, “I gave my love a cherry that has no stone, I gave my love a chicken that has no bone . . .”
As any performer knows, it is fatal to look at the audience while performing, so I fixed my eyes on the far side of the room just to the left of where David was standing, and kept them there. Or tried to. As I acknowledged the applause, I let my eyes drift to Exmere and the words to my next offering were startled right out of my head. His face was fixed in a rapt expression that seemed to indicate both surprise and enjoyment. He liked my singing.
What . . . when . . . where . . . Yes, where, that was the word I wanted. I gulped, studied the carpet for a moment, and finally got myself in hand and sang the opening line of “Lord Randal.” “Where have you been all the day, Randal, my son?”
It’s a dramatic ballad, with a tragic ending, and I put my heart and soul into it, singing the mother’s role in one voice and Lord Randal’s in another. At the end, when the poor dying Randal answered his mother’s question about what he would leave his true-love, I fairly shouted his response: “A rope to hang to her mother!” Then I softly intoned the final chorus, “Make my bed soft, mother, make my bed soon. For I’m sick in the heart and fain would lie down.”
Two beats of silence before thunderous applause. Pleased, I inclined my head and started back toward my seat.
“Miss Ballantyne. Penny.” Exmere’s voice brought me up short.
“My lord?”
“Before you go, might you honor us with ‘Greensleeves’?”
Lady Jocelyn’s eager voice sounded over the gentlemen’s murmurs of agreement. “Oh yes, please. I simply adore ‘Greensleeves.’”
It was one of my favorites too, but since I knew that in the era it was written, green sleeves were the mark of lightskirts, I had thought it best to avoid it. Yet now that was out of the question. And after all, it was highly unlikely anyone here was aware of the more shocking connotation of green sleeves.
I lost myself in the song, I admit it. Even though I could not claim Exmere had cast me off discourteously, I sang every syllable to him, for him. The sorrowful notes in a minor key were wrenched from my soul, winging their way across the room to the man who blew so hot and then so cold. And now . . .? Now I had no idea, but he had asked me for a song, and that was enough to fuel my fantasies not only for the evening but for weeks to come.
I was a silly fool, but there it was. As I finished the final verse, I took great care to keep my eyes fixed on the far wall as I sang, “For I remain thy lover true. Come once again and be with me,” before launching into the final chorus—“Greensleeves is all my joy, Greensleeves is my delight” with more gusto than the tale of lost love warranted, but my sentiments were heartfelt, and in song I could express them without fear of censure. I did, however, allow the final phrase—“And who but my Lady Greensleeves?”—to fade away to a long-drawn whisper, acknowledging the futility of a love that was not meant to be.
Applause was long and loud, but I quickly effaced myself to my chair, keeping my eyes downcast to avoid both Exmere and the sour and condescending looks I could imagine on the faces of Lady Rothbury and her daughters. I could not, of course, shut out their words.
“How sweet,” the marchioness purred. “Clearly, Miss Ballantyne, you have had ample exposure to the songs of the lower classes.”
I forced a smile. “Yes, indeed, my lady. In the army it is possible to learn songs from every part of England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, as well as Portugal and Spain. Though I must admit, I never quite assimilated the exotic sounds of India. Perhaps I was too young at the time.”
Before Lady Rothbury could respond to this, Vanessa announced that she was ready to retire but urged the rest of the company to remain until the tea tray came in. During the polite murmurs of farewell, David materialized out of the shadows and whisked Vanessa from the room. I followed in their wake.
I had gone only a few steps toward the stairs when Exmere caught up with me, whisking me into a darkened room. “Hiding another light under your barrel, I see,” he said, his voice coming out of the shadows in a room lit only by ambient light from the hall.
“A meager glow, my lord, compared to Lady Daphne’s true skill.”
“You ride, you sing, you tame my sister. You are a miracle worker, Penelope Ruth.”
“And you, my lord, have surely kissed the Blarney Stone.”
“I’ve never been to Ireland. God’s truth.” His voice was low and sensuous, his body suddenly close to mine. With my last bit of common sense, I said, “You will be missed, my lord, your departure all too obvious.”
“I made the excuse of seeing my sister to her room.” His lips came closer to mine. “I had to tell you I am sorry for all this, for visitors that will keep us from riding together, from doing any of the things I should like to do with you—”
“My lord!” But my protest was a feeble thing, a feather blown on a hurricane.
He kissed me then, and I knew all those admonitions from my mother, all my experience in dealing with young cavalry officers had come to naught. I knew now why good girls strayed and considered the world well lost. I should hate him for the philandering devil that he was, but of course I could not. The moment was too delicious to break. Boxing his ears, as I should, was out of the question.
It was Exmere who broke the kiss, stepping back, his look so speculative I could only shudder, waiting for the indecent proposal that was sure to come. But all he said was, “I cannot have you ‘my lording’ me. You must call me Robert or Rob when we are alone.”
I frowned, more than a little puzzled, when he added, “Forgive me for my neglect while guests are here, and do not go walking in the mists with anyone else. I fear there are worse things than my amorous cousin abroad.”
How could he know . . .?
How could he not know? He was heir to a house where servants lurked around every corner. Secrets were impossible to keep.
“Go now, and be careful,” he added. “Moorhead Manor needs its newfound treasure.” For a fleeting moment his lips touched my forehead before he waved his hand toward the open doorway. I scurried out and up, remembered to say goodnight and “Well done” to Vanessa, but it was hours before I could settle to sleep. Lord Exmere—Robert—had stepped over the line, yet in the end he had remained a gentleman. No urgent pleas to meet him in some unused bedchamber, no roaming hands, no shocking insinuations of what we might do together—all experiences I had coped with in the past.
There was no doubt Lady Daphne was here as a possible match for Exmere, yet he was stealing kisses from me while she sat but one room away. And yet Ex—Robert—had not treated me as if he were contemplating making me his mistress.
A dilemma, a true dilemma. Except I was so thrilled that he found me attractive that nothing else seemed to matter. Not good sense. Not strict training. Not my long experience with men. Robert, Lord Exmere, was different. A man who had already carved a special place in my heart. And woe to the foolish virgin who didn’t take heed of the danger.