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Bored.
The word jumped out at Spence the moment he stepped foot inside the Davidson home. By the time he left this soirée, he’d require suspenders to hold his eyelids up.
Christmas was right around the corner. He should be home working on his latest project—possibly his most worthy project to date. He would be if events like this weren’t expected of him.
Gilt-embossed wallpaper and oil paintings framed by gold-painted wood surrounded him. Crystal prisms hung from a gold-plated gas chandelier and sparkled like Queen Victoria’s diamonds. Shiny golden and brass decorative pieces sat on gold-trimmed furnishings. At any time, he expected to see an old, bedraggled miner tug a donkey laden with prospecting tools across the expansive foyer.
The Davidsons wanted to ensure everyone understood their position in Riverport’s pecking order.
“Good evening, Mr. Newland.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Davidson. Pardon my tardiness.”
“Not necessary. We know how busy you are at this time of year.”
Quiet conversations took place in the drawing room to his right. He handed a servant his coat and hat and paused outside the room to observe the dozen occupants gathered in small groups, talking and laughing.
In their twenties and early thirties, they had dressed in the required evening clothes—the men in dark coats, white waistcoats, and white ties and the women in satin and velvet gowns of various hues, the short sleeves puffed like fabric balloons. Flowery and spicy scents of perfumes and hair tonics hung in the air.
Rows of chairs and sofas filled the room for the pre-supper entertainment. He often found the company of many of his peers tiresome. Added to his exasperation, these gatherings were a doorway to any number of illnesses at this time of year.
Forget the etiquette. He’d call for his coat and hat. He started to turn and brushed against Mary Alice’s arm.
“Hello, Third.” The daughter of his hostess inspected him with heavy eyelids and a down-turned mouth that rarely changed direction. Although too forbidding for him, her features lent her a certain solemn intelligence that some men would find attractive.
After slipping her arm through his, she guided him into the room and leaned unbecomingly close to whisper, “I shouldn’t be so forward, but will you offer to be my supper escort? Mother has hinted at pairing me with someone dreadful.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
Her cheekbones glowed golden in the nearby lamplight. “Now that we are all here, except poor Josephine, we can begin the entertainment soon. The poor girl would have come tonight, but you know the capriciousness of her husband.”
Mary Alice’s gossip was like the bite of a viper. Spence had no doubt she would volunteer any information he didn’t ask to hear, so he steered her to a topic less chin wagging—the upcoming holiday. After a proper interval, he excused himself with the necessity to greet other acquaintances.
While half listening to his friends, he scanned the far end of the room and recognized the evening’s pianist. He’d had no idea whom the Davidsons had hired. A weight lifted from his mood.
Phoebe stood with two other women and looked stunning in a gown of black satin and sequins—a remnant from bygone days? Her expertly coiffed dark hair rivaled the styles of the other women in the room. He could well imagine her gracing a concert stage.
Spence denied his impatience and started toward her with a dawdling stride. He’d almost reached his goal, when Mary Alice glided to the front of the room near the piano. She clapped the tips of her fingers together several times in an elegant call for attention. “Ladies and gentlemen.” Content to see all eyes focused on her, she said, “My parents and I invited you here this evening to enjoy a musical performance by an artist on the piano, a woman renowned for her talent.”
Spence found a chair on the front row as Phoebe moved to the side while waiting to be introduced.
Once her guests were settled in the seats provided for them, Mary Alice said, “May I present Miss Phoebe Langford.”
Langford?
Phoebe’s stony glance hit Spence like a rock from a slingshot. He shook his head, silently assuring her he had said nothing. At the same time, he thought her reaction was a bit overblown. What difference did it make if people knew the name she performed under?
“Please welcome the Little Darling of the Ivories,” Mary Alice said. While Phoebe hesitated, Mary Alice smirked, as if she’d achieved a victory.
What did she know about Phoebe that he didn’t?
At the polite applause, Phoebe collected herself and sat at the piano, giving Spence a full view of her profile from the front row of seats. Mary Alice occupied the chair next to him.
Even though Phoebe’s back was as straight as a plumb line and her shoulders stiff, her fingers floated across the keys in the tranquil way placid waves lapped in and out along the shoreline. The longer she played, the more she visibly relaxed, presumably lost in the music that moved her as much as it did Spence.
Mary Alice broke the spell when she whispered, “She’s quite talented. Don’t you agree?”
“Quite.”
“Mother recognized her at the store. Don’t you wonder what else Miss Langford hides in addition to her identity?”
“Perhaps she prefers her married name because she wants privacy.”
“And perhaps you shouldn’t be gullible.”
Gullible? Spence ground his molars and recalled the suspicion on Phoebe’s face when she looked at him. The last thing he would do was betray her confidence. “It wasn’t fair of you to ambush her, Mary Alice.”
“Ambush her? Don’t be silly. Performers thrive on recognition. Can you imagine my surprise when Mother informed me of having seen one of our own perform on a concert stage?” Mary Alice directed her dialogue to Spence, but her gaze never left Phoebe. It reminded him of a wolf staring down its prey. The mental image curled the toes inside Spence’s new shoes.
Phoebe performed for another forty-five minutes while everyone in the room sat enraptured. Afterward, she turned to the audience and asked, “Does anyone have a request?”
“I do.” Mary Alice stood. “I request a duet between you and Mr. Newland.” She faced Spence and clapped her hands, encouraging him to accept. The others did the same.
This wasn’t his first time to be asked to play during an evening out, and declining such an invitation was considered rude. He strode to the front of the room as one of the guests placed a chair next to Phoebe’s stool.
“What is your choice, Mr. Newland?”
To leave, right now...with you.
A spark of rebellion struck him. “Let’s liven up the party, shall we? ‘Camptown Races,’ Mrs. Crain.”
She blinked. “‘Camptown Races?’” She shot a glance at Mary Alice and whispered, “That particular tune isn’t appropriate for the setting.”
“Are you familiar with the music?”
“I am, but—”
“Then let’s play it.”
A tiny smile tipped her lips. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
She placed her fingers on the keys. “Are you sure you can keep up, Mr. Newland?”
“I’ll do my best.” He grinned. “Shall we?”
He waited as she played the introduction, then he joined in. As their fingers bounced on the keys, the others gathered around the piano.
Toes tapped the floor and hands clapped to the lively rhythm. Guests began to sing. The whole room reverberated with the sounds of sopranos and tenors and basses.
Phoebe sped up the tempo, and Spence worked hard to keep up. She laughed when he matched her note for note.
With the last note, her hands stilled, but Spence kept playing, adding his own flair of creativity to the end. As he grazed the ivories, his shoulder brushed hers. His right hand came to rest alongside her left, both warm with the exertion. He couldn’t stop his fingers as they crept over hers and squeezed. The pleasure he’d noted in her expression moments before underwent a slow but dramatic change. Not quite fearful, not quite confident. Poised yet tentative.
He might well be wearing blinders. His eyes took in nothing to the left and nothing to the right, only what was before him. Only Phoebe. Just like that day in the carriage when they’d laughed over the near miss with the deer. He might have stared at her for hours that afternoon had she not looked away.
“What an interesting performance.” Mary Alice continued to clap after the others had stopped.
He didn’t speak fluent sarcasm. Nevertheless, Spence heard it in her voice.
Phoebe pulled her hand away. His dropped onto the keyboard to a jarring middle C.
A rosy hue stained her cheeks and added additional force to the pounding of his pulse. For several beats, he concentrated on a plant stand with its hairy fern, the shadow behind it that was created by a well-lit lamp, the wavering light—anything to calm the hot rush through his veins.
He stood and graced Phoebe with a slight bow, then loomed over Mary Alice, who had never left her seat. “It was an honor to play with someone with such immense talent. Thank you for the opportunity.”
Although hard to tell from her normal expression, he thought he detected a scowl.
Mrs. Davidson announced supper. He bent his elbow and held it out. “Are you ready, Mary Alice?”
She wrapped her arm around his and held on tight. “Be careful, Spence.”
“In what way?”
“Miss Langford has designs on you.”
“I hardly think Mrs. Crain concerns herself with me.” Spence placed his hand on Mary Alice’s arm and led her away as the rest of the guests followed. He refrained from peering over his shoulder to see who led Phoebe into the dining room.
“Don’t be naïve. I noticed the way she watched you when you walked in and while you spoke with our friends. Believe me—she has set her sights on you. You know the reputation of performers. I won’t sit idle and see you become involved with a woman of dubious character.”
Dubious character? The vein in Spence’s temple throbbed as he pulled out Mary Alice’s chair. “In that case, I must take care to watch her too.”
Her blue eyes darkened, and her normally dour expression turned peevish.
