In the Arms of an Earl (2 page)

From old habit, he went to flex his fingers together, stopping short when his right hand did not find its opposite. His brain vividly remembered his left hand, and the phantom appendage twitched in response.

The audience dispersed, and he caught snippets of conversations as people walked by. Mundane, everyday subjects he would have taken for granted seven years ago, when he’d considered himself part of the world. Now, music was his only remaining joy of a life once fully lived.

The lead matron of the debutante’s association nearly brushed his arm as she waddled past in her sea-green gown, a trail of peacock feathers dangling from the side of her bonnet.

“My dear,” she gushed to her companion, another garishly dressed woman, “you must compile your list of all the eligible bachelors attending the ball this Saturday. My sister’s eldest, Delphinia, will attend. I only want firstborn sons, mind you.” She tapped her closed fan against her round chin. “However, if you know of any well-to-do second sons, they may be considered.” She cast a sly glance around the room, her gaze hovering on a father loudly correcting his son. Both were dressed at the extreme height of fashion. “But no Nabobs, unless they appear genteel. We do not wish to turn away any good prospects.”

Frederick snorted, discreetly pretending to cough when the women turned to glare at him with twin arched eyebrows. He gave a little bow, and one returned an uncertain curtsy. He walked outside, his temper rising at their intended slight. He was no poor second son or a Nabob but was independently wealthy and a bachelor.

They knew this well, as did every good mother in Shropshire in possession of an unwed daughter or two. He did not expect an invitation to the ball and would not have gone if asked, since he was not of a mind at present to wed any of the milk-faced, pinch-lipped progeny of genteel society.

Not having been considered suitable is what bothered him.

The hack he’d hired waited around the corner, and he walked briskly down the street, hiding the end of his left sleeve in his coat pocket. A few young women smiled at him as he passed, but he ignored them. Why bother when they would only see his empty sleeve and turn away?

“To Everhill, sir?” the jarvey asked, opening the carriage door with an exaggerated flourish, in probable imitation of the other footmen.

Frederick leaned back into the dim confines of the carriage, grateful the leather curtains were drawn. “Not just yet, if you please. They are not expecting me until this evening. Can you recommend an inconspicuous tavern where a man may have a drink without being disturbed?”

The man tugged his forelock and offered a broad wink. “I know of such a place, sir.”

He took his seat up front and shouted to the horses, which trotted briskly down the road. Frederick glanced at the program beside him on the bench. The centered words were drawn in a bold, swirling hand.

The Symphony of the Sea, by F.B
.

He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the corner of the carriage, where it disappeared beneath the seat. He had not expected accolades or even riotous applause, although the reception had been satisfying. Dreams of Haydn-like glory had been his when he was still at his mother’s knee, playing the world’s masterpieces while his indulgent mother praised his talent. He’d long outgrown the need for recognition, grateful the music he’d always heard inside his head still had the ability to entertain.

The audience had appreciated his offering though he suspected their rapturous outpouring had more to do with the lovely performer than with the notes themselves. Most of the audience had talked throughout the performance, except for Lucinda Parker’s companion.

Curious girl.

With her tightly wound little bun and drab gown, Lucinda’s friend appeared closer to sixty than sixteen, for all her youthful complexion. All she needed was a pair of spectacles perched on the end of her button nose to complete the picture of unmarried virgin. It was not her face or figure, though he found no fault with either, that had caught his attention. She had actually listened to his music, feeling it, apparently, in her flesh and bones, the way he did.

When he’d first become aware of her enthralled state, just after the adagio, he’d turned away, a sardonic smile twisting his mouth before he’d realized it.
Emotional little spinster
. He’d been swarmed by her type years ago at lavish balls where his compositions were the evening’s highlight. Enthusiastic and eager, the youngest daughters of impoverished barons and earls would press their praise and attentions on him, pretending it was his music, and not his fortune of ten thousand a year, which had sparked their interest.

He’d nearly dismissed Lucinda’s friend as another such girl until he looked again. The sparkle of tears glistened in her wide, hazel eyes. Her skin glowed with an inner fire, a rapture he realized he had caused. Mesmerized, he’d watched her long fingers dance across her knees in perfect imitation of the pianist, picking up the notes and measures until he could almost hear the symphony emerging from the folds of her dowdy skirt. He’d seen, too, the faded toes of her shoes peek from beneath her hem, tapping and keeping time.

His days of introducing himself to an unmarried miss were long over. As a confirmed bachelor of thirty-four, Frederick did not foresee a wife and children in his future. But this girl was no potential spouse. In her, he’d found a vessel in which to pour his heart and soul. To reach the heart of another through his music was all he’d ever wanted. He had no other interest in her beyond music. He was perfectly content to retire to his extensive property in Shropshire, basking in the companionship of a few close friends and the comfortable loyalty of his tenants. The enthusiastic women he’d known in his youth were gone, a direct result of his returning scarred from battle. Female companionship of the sort his brother Henry, the fifth Earl of Falconbury, favored held no interest for him.

He grimaced as a tremor shot through his left arm and ended in a fiery tingling sensation at the ends of his missing fingers. Repugnance, or worse, pity was the usual response of the ladies he’d met since the war. He normally eschewed attending even casual occasions such as this musicale, but the desire to hear his latest, and perhaps, finest piece played before a real audience had conquered his reticence.

And the fact he could not play it himself was another reason.

A spasm struck him. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding back a groan with gritted teeth while he waited for it to pass. Inevitably, the pain lessened as the pins and needles in his lower arm and hand—the hand no longer attached to his body—began.

He massaged the stump through his carefully sewn cuff, but it brought no relief. He hadn’t expected it to. The expensive London physicians Henry had summoned told him the pains and tingling were a mere fancy conjured by his imagination. Besides, how could he feel pain in an appendage that was no longer there?

He fumbled inside his coat and withdrew a slim silver flask. Grimacing, he held it between his knees while he pulled out the stopper. As he sipped, the sherry taste of laudanum slid down his tongue, filling him with an artificial heat.

He put the flask away, noting it was nearly empty. He couldn’t remember when he’d last filled it but would have to make a request of his valet, Dixon, to procure more. He’d withstand Dixon’s inevitable disapproving silence, knowing the man would serve his needs despite his objection to his master’s choice of sedative. It was either laudanum, or he could douse his pain in hard liquor, which had killed his father.

He scowled at the unbidden memory of his father. Quick to punish and miserly with praise for his sons, the late earl had governed his tenants and three boys with an iron hand. Frederick often wondered if their father’s brutality was why he and his brothers had no children. Henry and his wife, Alice, had tried for years with no luck; while his other brother Edwin had fled to the other side of the world to India, to minister to the poor.

Frederick liked to think he would have been a good father, but over time, hopes of marriage and fatherhood had vanished. He required a compassionate woman for such an endeavor and no longer believed such a woman existed.

Slowly, the drug worked its way through his body. The numbing effect was temporary, but by the time it wore off, he hoped to be knee deep in ale surrounded by the kind of men who didn’t notice a soldier’s injury. His mouth watered with anticipation of a drink, and he frowned at the sign of his need.

The jostling carriage had a lulling effect on his spirits, bringing thoughts of more pleasant things. An image of a heart-shaped face wavered in his mind—a face with a shy smile and eyes slanted like a cat’s, golden brown shot through with shards of emerald. Lucinda’s friend, the intriguing little spinster. If only for an instant, he’d felt a connection with her.

“There may be hope for you yet, Blakeney,” he muttered.

Chapter Two

“Hold your pose, Jane. I’ve almost finished your right arm,” Lucinda mumbled through the mouthful of paintbrushes dangling from her lips.

Jane buried her discomfort. Today, she was Arachne at a loom. Yesterday, she’d been a garden fairy, her hair swarming with paper butterflies and birds. And tomorrow…Lucinda had hinted of wood nymphs and something to do with a costume “Papa will find less than modest, I’m afraid.”

Her fingers skimmed the keyboard of her friend’s remarkable, and sadly neglected, pianoforte. She ached to play it and gazed longingly at the stacks of music on the ivory-inlaid cover. She hadn’t had much of a chance to play since coming to the Parkers’ house the month before. The only enjoyable outing they’d had was the musicale.

Her cheeks burned at the thought. She could still picture the composer’s dark eyes, filled with humiliation and embarrassment at her unintentional slight.

She shifted in her chair, and Lucinda scolded her for moving. Resigned, Jane imagined herself as the clever Arachne, who’d tricked a vain goddess. She didn’t feel particularly clever. In fact, she was tired and bored. Despite the Parkers’ friendliness, she longed to cut her visit short. Mamma would be disappointed as she’d hoped her luck in obtaining a husband might increase with a change of scenery.

Her arm tingled in protest from holding the same position for several minutes. “How is it coming along?”

“I am almost finished. I cannot seem to get the drape of your toga. Too bad you won’t put on a real one.”

“I will not parade around in a bed sheet.” Jane craned her neck to see the painting, but Lucinda blocked it with her body.

“Not yet, Jane, I beg you. You will be very pleased with it. Depending on how it turns out, I might make you a present of it.” Her brush was laden with dull, brown paint, and Jane knew Lucinda was starting on her hair.

“Do you ever play this pianoforte?”

Lucinda stared at the canvas, lost in thought. “Not very much. Hardly at all. I prefer art to music. Papa said I might go to the Continent next year, if he can persuade my Aunt Matilda to take me.”

“What if you’re married by then?” Jane brushed her fingers lightly over the keys without making a sound.

Lucinda laughed. “Married? Pooh! Wealthy girls needn’t marry unless they really want to. Besides, I do not understand all the fuss about marriage. Papa spoils me terribly, and if all bachelors are anything like Jeremy, I’d rather live with Papa the rest of my life.”

Jane pressed the keys. Music drifted out of the pianoforte, easing some of her discomfort. She remembered the haunting tones of F.B.’s work and played a chord as softly as she could so Lucinda would not object.

“Not all men are like your brother. My sisters married very respectable, kindly gentlemen.”

Lucinda stared at Jane’s hair with a frown. She dabbed at the canvas again. “Your sisters are very fortunate, indeed.”

Jane studied one of Lucinda’s paintings on the wall. Jeremy’s blue eyes stared back. Lucinda’s brush had captured the sardonic lift of the brow and the perpetual smirk on his lips. He’d ignored her when she’d first arrived but lately had been paying her the oddest compliments.

“Surely, you’ve had suitors of your own,” Lucinda prodded. “I, myself, was proposed to. Well, almost proposed to—by the Earl of Warwick’s third cousin’s stepson.”

Jane lifted her fingers from the keys. “Really? What happened?”

“He was too young and had no prospects. Papa thought I should wait a while longer.”

“That sounds like good advice.” She couldn’t see Colonel Parker ever desiring his only daughter to leave him.

“Come now, Jane.” Lucinda pointed her paintbrush like an extension of her finger. “You must tell me of your own suitors.”

Jane pushed the tickling strands of hair from her cheek. Lucinda’s maid had dressed it in the fashion they imagined a Roman maiden would have worn. Jane wondered how Lucinda knew anything of ancient Rome, since she had yet to observe her with a book.

“I do not wish to have suitors.” She pretended her single status was of her choosing and not due to lack of interest on the part of any bachelors. “My sisters were always occupied in the pursuit of husbands. I prefer to stay at home, and read, or play…” Her finger touched the keys again. A single note held and faded.

“You prefer music over the attentions of a swain?”

“My sisters suffered while waiting for their beaux to propose marriage. I would not desire the same despair. Sleepless nights…”

“Whispers and sighs,” Lucinda interjected, and sighed herself.

“Distracted to a fault.”

“Focused on a pair of handsome eyes.”

Jane turned abruptly away from Jeremy’s portrait. “Lack of appetite.”