Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (33 page)

Twenty-seven

Surrey, England

Five weeks later

“I
declare, Miss Forrester, why have we not met before? You are far too fine a gel to be shut away in the country!” Mr. Hartley was grinning at Bridget with a dewy look in his eyes, as if he were in some kind of wonderful daydream. The nice, chinless, younger son of a Baronet from Yorkshire led her through the turns of their quadrille with, if not precisely grace, at least well-practiced concentration.

It was the middle of the regular Season, and apparently, the warmth that had eluded England in the winter had visited early and often in the summer. So much so, that most families had already quit the unpleasant growing stink of the city for the more comfortable climes of their country homes.

When the Forrester ladies had arrived back in town, it was to find Lord Forrester ecstatic to see his family again and their town house whole once more, but the front sitting room had not yet been refurbished (Lord Forrester wisely said he was waiting for his wife’s return, because if he attempted to decorate it himself it would simply be undone once she came home at any rate). Sarah Fletcher—née Forrester, Bridget’s elder sister—was thrilled to see them as well, if for no other reason than their father had taken to having dinner at the newlyweds’ house, and most newlyweds would have preferred at least a modicum of privacy.

Lord and Lady Forrester, when reunited, proved rather newlywed-like, too, and thus, when Sarah informed them that they had been invited to Lady Phillippa Worth’s house party at her country estate in Effingham, Surrey, they were more than happy to have Sarah act as chaperone to her two sisters while they stayed in London.

It was an enormous to-do, the way everything that Lady Worth did turned out to be, and it seemed as if everyone Bridget had missed the opportunity to meet over the Season was in attendance, to make up for that lack.

But there were a few people she had met before.

“Mr. Hartley, I am shocked that you do not remember,” Bridget replied cheerfully when they came together again through the movement of the lines. “We met in the Little Season, and I remember you and your friend Mr. Coombe.”

“Coombe?” A queer look crossed Hartley’s face. “And you say we chatted?”

“Yes, Mr. Hartley, we chatted very amiably.” Then Bridget decided to cut Mr. Hartley a little slack. “But it was right before we left town to go to Italy, so I do not fault you for not remembering. One meets so many people in London, it takes at least two or three introductions for anyone to stick.”

“I should imagine you would stick, Miss Forrester,” Mr. Hartley replied. “You are too bright a diamond to be out of anyone’s mind for long.”

Bridget blushed prettily and shook her head at the compliment. A diamond, indeed. Oh, Bridget knew she wasn’t a diamond by any stretch of the imagination, but since coming back a week ago, she had been much . . . calmer, she supposed. Less easily rattled, less confrontational. She smiled more, because she was no longer afraid.

Ever since that night at the Marchese’s palazzo, she had lost any sense of fear of being judged. Because no outcome could be anywhere near as heartbreaking as the one that night.

Therefore, there was absolutely nothing to fear from any of the young men who filled her dance card—and they did fill her dance card—she thought, as Mr. Hartley led her off the floor, leaving her with her sisters (Amanda, it seemed, had talked Sarah into letting her
finally
wear her hair up) to wait for the gentleman who had her next waltz to come and find her.

“Here you are,” her sister Sarah said, as she came to stand beside her. “You will be quite interested in this. Mr. Fairleigh here was just telling me about this new symphony by Beethoven. Apparently it’s all the rage in Vienna.”

“And I was telling Mr. Fairleigh that we
know
already,” Amanda piped up, but Sarah shot her a look of sisterly affection (which from afar might be interpreted as a look of death) and instead turned and presented Mr. Fairleigh to Bridget.

Sarah did not know what had transpired in Venice—unless, of course, Amanda had broken her promise not to betray Bridget’s confidence, but Bridget did not think that was the case. Because if she had, Bridget doubted Sarah would be as eager to present eligible gentlemen with similar interests to Bridget. (No, she would likely have her husband, Jack, track down Oliver Merrick and drag him through the Grand Canal by his teeth.)

Not that Bridget minded. New gentlemen, that is. Since they saw her as pleasant now, they were pleasant to her and eager to please. Mr. Hartley was one, and Mr. Fairleigh—a pleasant landed gentleman from Cumberland, not yet thirty—was another. And it seemed he did have an interest in music.

“The symphony has a beautifully strong theme, a message of hope and love. Music set to poetry,” Mr. Fairleigh was saying.

“Yes, I know,” Bridget replied. “For you see, my sister is right—we were fortunate enough to hear the premiere in Vienna.”

“Did you?” Mr. Fairleigh replied, his interest profound before but now suddenly piqued. “I thought you traveled only to Italy.” Mr. Fairleigh set a questioning glance at Sarah. Sarah simply shrugged, also uninformed.

Perhaps it would be wise to tell Sarah herself that more had happened while they were abroad than the taking of a few piano lessons. But if she did, it would be like reliving the whole thing.

And she could not do that. It all hurt too much.

“Mostly we remained in Venice,” Bridget explained, keeping her answers as vague as possible. “But we took a trip to Vienna, especially to attend that concert.”

“They have given the symphony its own name,” Mr. Fairleigh replied. “After the poem that is sung. They are calling it the Ode to—”

“Joy.” A warm tenor filled the air behind Bridget, making her heart stop. Bridget did not have to turn to know who it was, but some force of gravity spun her on an axis and brought her around to see his face.

“They call it the ‘Ode to Joy.’” Oliver Merrick stood there, looking down into her eyes. And it was as if the whole room, the whole party, the whole world, came to a sudden stop.

“You’re here,” Bridget breathed, her shock complete, and raw.

“Yes, I am,” he answered, unable to keep the bemusement out of his voice.

“I . . . What are you doing here?” she accused.

A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “I am here to collect my dance partner.”

He brought one of his hands out from behind his back and held it out to her.

“I . . . I don’t believe . . . that is, Mr. Fairleigh—” Bridget stammered, trying to unfold her dance card, her hands failing her in time. Because at that moment . . .

“Mr. Fairleigh is going to dance with me!” Amanda cried, wrapping her arm around Mr. Fairleigh’s, much to that gentleman’s bewilderment.

“Amanda—you cannot dance,” Sarah said under her breath to her sister.

“Why not?” Amanda replied. “If I can wear my hair up, I can dance. Right, Mr. Fairleigh?”

And a gentleman he was. “Er, I suppose. That is, I should be delighted to dance with you, Miss Amelia,” he said.

“Amanda,” she corrected, under her breath, but she kept the smile pasted on her mouth and shooed Bridget and Oliver away. “You must hurry if you are to take your places. We shall, er, catch the next one.”

Bridget wanted to rail at her sister, but Oliver’s hand was suddenly on her elbow, and she was too afraid she would jump out of her skin for want of his touch to do anything but follow where he led. As she was being maneuvered to the dance floor, she heard Sarah exclaim to Amanda, “I have the feeling I am not being told something important.”

“I know!” Amanda answered gleefully. “And for once, I do not!”

Once on the dance floor, Bridget could do little but stare at Oliver as they waited for the music to begin. She simply could not believe it was him. And that he was here. Looking as handsome as ever, damn him.

Although he did look a bit thinner than he had before. Was he not eating? Was he well?

“I can see you thinking, Bridget,” he said quietly, as the music came up and he stepped forward to take her in his arms.

“I was thinking . . . that you look as if you have been ill,” she said awkwardly, unable to find a benign lie.

But he smiled. “No—well, a touch of
mal de mer
once we hit the open waters of the Atlantic, but I’ve been fine ever since we docked.”

“Oh,” Bridget replied, stupidly. “And when was that?”

“Three days ago. Long enough for us to track down your address in London, discover from your mother your whereabouts, ask your father a question of some importance, and travel here.”

“Ask my father a question?” Bridget’s voice squeaked.

“Yes, but we can save that for later. First, I would like to show you something,” Oliver said, as he deftly spun her out of the dancers and away from the crowd.

They stepped into a corridor—Lady Worth’s country estate was just as labyrinthine as her oversized home in Mayfair, and therefore this corridor could lead to the card room as easily as it could the courtyard or the kitchens. Bridget had been in residence for almost a week and she still got lost.

She never got lost.

But for once, Oliver seemed to be the one who knew where he was going. Genially, properly, he offered her his arm, and Bridget took it.

“So,” he began cordially, “I told you about my voyage. How was yours?”

“It was . . .”
Horrid. Sad. Lonely.
“Fine. No
mal de mer
. Well, except for my mother.”

“You made good time; I daresay I left less than a day after you.” He mused. “However, I took a different route, crossing the mainland to Rome, hoping to catch you there. But you had already gone on.”

Her heart beat a rapid staccato. He had come after her in less than a day? “Yes, the captain said we caught a good wind. We were in England before I realized it,” she answered vaguely.

“And how long was it before you missed me?”

And it was that one question, that one simple question, that broke through the armor, the wall that was propping her up and keeping her safe.

“Oliver, please don’t,” she implored, her thickening voice betraying her. Tears threatened to fall down her cheeks.

“For me, it was practically the moment you left the Marchese’s ballroom, proud and triumphant. You won the competition, you know.”

“Did I?” She laughed sadly, trying desperately to hold on to some measure of control.

“Yes. After you performed, Klein did not even touch the piano. He conceded without playing. Now, tell me, how long was it before you missed me?”

“Three days,” she replied quietly. “I was so angry for three days, on board the ship. And then, I wasn’t anymore.”

Indeed, it was the morning of the fourth day, when she had awakened to find tears in her eyes. Tears that would not stop. It was as if all the anger had fled, leaving her hollow, and everything else rushed in. And he was right . . . the thing that overwhelmed her the most was the sense of vacancy in her heart, where he used to stand firm.

The missing him.

“I cried for days over you, Oliver. How could you do it?” she asked, more tears flowing now, tears she could no longer hold back. “How could you have let him do it?”

“Hush, my love,” Oliver said, his own voice breaking. He pulled her over to the side of the corridor, a small alcove providing a modicum of privacy if anyone should happen by. There, he took her face in his hands and kissed each tear that fell on her cheeks.

“I am sorry. I am so sorry. I will always regret what I did. I . . . I am trying to make amends. Please, will you let me try?”

“How?” she said, between sniffles. She felt horrible, weak-willed. Where was the Bridget who held her head high? Where was the Bridget who could turn away from him disdainfully?

Left at sea, she supposed.

“First of all, you have to know—I never asked you to play your ‘Ode to Venice’ so Carpenini could overhear. Nor did I take you to Vienna to get you out of his way so he could make use of it. I swear,” he breathed, his hands still framing her face, gently brushing back a wisp of hair here, a tear there. It was as if he could not give up touching her, now that she was in front of him.

Bridget did not think she could give it up, either.

“I
wanted
to hear you play, that was the only reason,” he continued. “And I wanted to be by your side when we first heard Beethoven’s Ninth. You are the only person with whom I can imagine sharing any of that, whom I would ask to share themselves so wholly with me.”

“I know,” Bridget replied, her heart a bit lighter. “I did not credit those accusations.” She gave a short frown. “Eventually, at least. But that hardly matters.”

“No, it does not,” he agreed grimly. “What I did—letting him steal your music—that is a gross betrayal for which I cannot hope for forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” Bridget cried. “Oliver, how am I supposed to trust you? You would make the same use of me Carpenini did, taking what you want for your own advantage.”

“No!” Oliver cried. “No, I will not. Bridget,” he said, running one hand through his dark locks. “I am not going back to Venice. I have decided to sell the Teatro—well, the warehouse that would have been the Teatro.”

“You have?” she asked. “Why?”

“Because if that was what I was willing to do to get it, it is tainted. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want anything without you.” Oliver met her eyes again. “I don’t want anything
but
you, Bridget. I love you. I have loved you since you showed up at my door, all determination.”

“I love you, too,” Bridget said in a rush. “I keep getting lost without you.”

He laughed and threw his head back in delight. “That’s amusing. For you see, it is only because of you that I managed to find my way home.”

He leaned down and kissed her then, and a thousand questions that had been lined up in Bridget’s mind instantly fled. To be in his arms again was the only right she could think of.

After a time, they broke apart, too happy to do anything other than smile and touch. Let their fingers intertwine and their bodies enjoy leaning on the other.