Chapter Seventeen

No Kissing Between Friends

Frederica stepped out of Lady Crisdon’s carriage and stood in Downing’s drive. She waved the coachman off and watched the two-pair prance down to the main road.

Up the steps, she waited for the door to open. Glittering footmen in silver and oxblood-red stood guard. “May we help you?” The voice was unfamiliar, and her confidence diminished for a moment. She was already forgotten.

Frederica cleared her throat. “I’m Miss Burghley. Where’s Templeton?”

One man hit the other, then she was let inside, and someone took her muff and cape. The footman who knew her name stepped forward. “I’ll go get him, Miss Burghley.”

“I’ll wait in the parlor.” She pushed past the footman before he could stop her, ink-stained skirts and all.

When she went to her favorite room, it was like seeing an old friend, a lost love.

She ran to the pianoforte and pulled off the sheet that covered it. She opened the curtains to let light bathe it.

“Old friend, how I’ve missed you.”

She settled down in front of the pianoforte and carefully fingered the lid. “Are you nervous? I am.”

With a flip of her wrist, she exposed the keys. Laying her face against them, she breathed in the sweet ivory.

Then she played.

First a march, like a triumphant return, then Handel’s “Messiah.” She even stood at the climactic part, as King George II did.

Tall Templeton came in and set a tray on the table. Chocolate dipped biscuits and, from the sweet smell, a pot of chamomile tea was his offering. He smiled. “Good to see you, ma’am.”

Then he left but kept the door slightly cracked, perhaps so he could listen.

She wasn’t forgotten.

She was home.

Frederica played from memory, from every inch of her heart.

When she looked up again the light had changed. No more strong sunshine poured into the parlor.

Frederica stopped playing. It would be dark soon. Should she go get her boots and then take one of the duke’s carriages to Tradenwood?

No more memories had returned. Her experiment to regain power over that night was a failure.

A door slammed in the distance.

Fear pumped through her. She remembered she wasn’t in the house alone. But would anyone save her if it was the letter-writing villain? Had he discovered she was in Town?

The sound of boots treading the hardwood of the hall made her fearful.

As if thinking of Hartwell willed him into existence, the huffing, puffing viscount blew through the door of the parlor. He slammed it shut.

Shedding his greatcoat and gloves, he fumed. A very stern look crossed his handsome features. “Miss Frederica Burghley.”

With a hand to her heart, she took a breath. “Perhaps you should use all my names as my mother did when she was cross. Miss Frederica Eugenia Frankincense Burghley.”

He stopped, mumbling something that sounded like Frankincense, then came closer. His face was grim with his lips pressed into a grumpy line. His body seemed tense, and his arms bulged beneath his dark tailcoat. He sounded as if he’d been running.

Hartwell took the final three steps and was at her side.

“Should I play a villain’s tune for this lecture, or something more academic?”

“Do you have something, anything to say to me?”

She split the difference and went for “The Last Rose of Summer.”

“Good afternoon, Or is it good evening? I get things mixed up at this hour.”

“Stop playing that. It won’t let you escape my anger, Frederica.”

She lowered her face from the fire in his eyes and consulted the friendly keys. “I’m not sure what you want me to play, my lord. I’m not clairvoyant. Knowing what you mean is not a skill I possess. I suppose daughters of neglectful fathers miss that skill.”

He pounded the top of the pianoforte, then wrenched at the back of his neck as if a great weight sat upon it. “Leaving you, more or less safe in the company of my girls, is not the same as you coming back to Downing alone.”

“Alone? Do you mean unmarried? Alone like you, trapped in your memories so no one can reach your heart, not even my favorite, little Lucy? What type of alone are you referring to, my lord?”

“I’m not in the mood for this, Frederica. You were to stay at Crisdon’s until I returned.”

“No, I was to stay until I proved to you, and perhaps myself, that I could handle three children.”

His chortle was harsh and loud, and he drummed his fingers on the pianoforte. “They ran you off? I told you—”

“No. I think I handled them nicely. I left them alive and cheerful in Lady Crisdon’s care.”

He rubbed at his shoulder. “I know. I saw them, heard of your goodness. But it wasn’t safe to come here. Get your things. I’ll take you back to Tradenwood, where you will be safe.”

“Through toils and dangers I’ve already come, sir. I can take one of the duke’s carriages to Tradenwood when I’m ready. I do not require an ambivalent chaperone.”

“Ambivalent is the last thing that I am when it comes to you. I told the duke, I’ll keep you—”

“No, you don’t want to keep me. You’ve no room, just ghosts in your head. So, sit. Listen to my concert. I’ll move when I’m ready.”

He leaned over her, hands on either side, boxing her against the pianoforte. A scent, something meaty like delicious beefsteak, clung to him. “I could make you move.”

It was true. He was powerful and tall and filled with the goodness and humor she craved. But like her bonbons, she knew when to stop craving, to stop desiring something that could make her heart sick. She tapped da-da-done on the keys. “I’d like to see if you could make up your mind and try.”

His breath heated her neck. He was close behind, leaning over her. “I don’t need you to be difficult. I’ll make you move.”

She spun on the seat to face him, eye to eye, nose almost to nose. “If I wanted to be difficult, I’d make you love me. Who’ll go first?”