Authors: Patricia Kiyono
Love's Refrain (6 page)
“Well, we've all got our duties. I've got to make sure the house is ready for Lord Covington's arrival. Carry on, girls.” She rose and swept from the room as regally as she had entered.
Miranda turned to her sister, her expression stricken with horror. “Laura, this can't be happening! You must know I never encouraged himâ”
Laura put a hand on her sister's arm. “It's all right, poppet. The earl and I shared our love of music for a little while, that's all. It's nothing he couldn't enjoy with a sister-in-law. It's not enough for a connection as important as marriage. I'm so happy for you. And nowâ” She rose before the tears began flowing. “I must see to the refreshments.”
She hurried from the room, careful to keep her back straight. Rather than going to the kitchen, she went directly to the study. Cousin Reginald was gone for the day, and she hoped her father wouldn't be there, either. Pushing the door open, she saw no one.
Good.
She closed the door behind her and finally let the tears fall. Leaning against the door for support, she felt her knees start to give way. Blindly, she reached out for the settee she knew would be nearbyâ¦
Gentle hands gripped her upper arms, guided her across the room, and sat her down. A clean white handkerchief was pressed into her hands, and the other end of the settee creaked as another person sat next to her. She smelled the rich scent of tobacco, and she leaned into her papa, her protector, her greatest supporter.
“What is it, love? What has happened to make my sensible daughter, my strong, intelligent child, cry such desperate tears?”
The tears fell harder. “Oh, Papa, I've been so stupid!”
“Nonsense. You've never been stupid a day in your life. I know; I've been there.”
A giggle escaped between the sobs. Lord Norwood was a powerful man, but he'd always had time for his only child. He waited patiently for her sobs to subside, his arm wrapped around her, his hand patting her shoulder gently.
“Now, tell Papa what happened to upset you so. I haven't seen you shed tears like this since you broke your arm trying to stop Miranda from jumping out of a tree.”
Laura remembered the incident well. It seemed her efforts to take care of her younger stepsister always ended with her getting hurt. Especially now. She hadn't meant to fall in love with Andrew again, but she had. But apparently he didn't love her back, and now her heart was broken.
“I â I can't tell you,” she said through her sniffles.
“Of course you can. You can tell me anything.”
“No, it's â it's just too embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing? This from the young woman who marched into her father's study and demanded to be fitted for a corset?”
“Papa! I was only six years old. I didn't know any better.”
“Perhaps, but it was a few years later when you demanded to learn how to drive a surrey. And a few years after that when you â”
“Enough, Papa. I realize I have come to you many times when I felt I couldn't speak to Mother. But this is so painful, I don't believe I can speak of this to anyone.”
There was a pause, and then, “Laura, has some cad broken your heart?”
She lifted her wet eyes to him. “Papa, you know me so well.”
He took the handkerchief from her and gently wiped her eyes. I know you have a mind sharper than any barrister, the wit of a poet, and the heart of an angel. You think you are lacking because you are not the social darling your sister is, but I know your gifts, and any man who recognizes those gifts will treasure you for the gem you are.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“This idiot who has spurned you, however, is to be pitied. For not only has he thrown away a good woman, he will not ever be welcome in my house. Now, tell me who he is.”
“I can't tell you.” If she told him, then Miranda would not be able to marry him. She wasn't sure she could bear to see him wed her sister. But she would endure it, if that was what Miranda wanted.
There was a sharp rap on the door, and Jones entered. “My Lord, you have a visitor.”
Laura stiffened. “I'll go to my room now, papa, so your guest can come in.” She rose and swept out of the study.
Knowing Jones would have the guest waiting in the front, she went directly to her room by way of the back stairs to avoid seeing him. She couldn't bear to see him, not yet. Besides, she must look a mess after sobbing on her father's shoulder. Hopefully, Jones would be able to repair any damage she'd done to her father's coat with her silly tears.
Once in her room, she used the washbowl to freshen her face. She took a deep calming breath, willing the tears to stop. She needed something productive to do.
Satisfied she had her emotions under control, she settled herself in the chaise longue with a new volume of poetry called
Hebrew Melodies
. Her father, knowing how she loved poetry, had given it to her last Christmas. She opened it, and her eyes focused on the title: “My Soul is Dark.”
How appropriate
, she thought. The poem must have been written for her. Perhaps the author, Lord Byron, had experienced the same pain she now felt. Her eyes scanned the page, taking in the poet's words:
How perfectly this poem described her feelings. Byron's words imprinted themselves on her soul, and immediately a melody, full of melancholy, played in her mind. She hummed softly, wanting to keep the song to herself. But the song wasn't meant to be sung in silence. It wouldn't stay inside her. The haunting words entwined with the sad, minor modes of the melody and swelledâ
Remembering the guest downstairs with her father, she took her book and slipped down the back stairs to the courtyard behind the townhouse. A recent rain had freshened the gardens and the colorful blossoms beckoned to her.
Thankful she had put on her sturdy, sensible shoes that morning rather than light slippers, she stepped on the path.
Again, Lord Byron's verses filled her heart. There was pain, but the suffering erupted in song. The melody in her head worked its way to her heart and then to her mouth.
She sang as she walked, keeping the volume fairly low, in case others had decided to enjoy the sunshine.
Finishing the verse, she felt better, so she began again. But now a countermelody played, a lighter, more cheerful melody, rising above the notes she sang and rendering hope and optimism. She took a deep breath and sang with heartfelt passion, not wanting the feeling to end.
The last note rang true and echoed for a moment, and she basked in the beauty of the harmony. But suddenly her eyes flew open as she realized that the harmony had not been imagined. Where had the music come from? She whirled around to face her duet partner.
Andrew stood behind her, his flute still at his lips, as if ready to play another chorus. His eyes shone with emotion. But what was it he felt? Was it pleasure at creating the lovely music? Or could it be�
Finally putting his instrument down to his side, he smiled gently. There was no hint of embarrassment, no hesitation in his step as he came to her.
“I've spoken to your father,” he began.
Laura's heart dropped to her feet.
Of course.
She had known the reason for his visit. Why had she allowed herself to hope?
“Mother told us you would be here,” she told him. “Has Miranda accepted?”
“Lady Miranda?” His brow dipped in confusion. “I didn't see her. We didn't talk about her. You are my only concern.”
“M-me?”
“Yes, you. I wanted to speak to you that morning, out here in the garden.” He set his flute on a nearby bench then stood in front of her. He took both her hands in his. Laura held her breath as she gazed into his wide hazel eyes.
“Until this summer, I believed I was better off alone. I thought I had everything I needed, everything I would possibly want. But like a good song needs a refrain to balance its verse, and like a beautiful melody needs harmony to soar, I need a soul mate to make my life complete.
“Miss Laura Montgomery, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
The breath she'd held escaped on a sigh. “You want me? Truly?”
He shook his head. “I don't just
want
you, I
need
you. I need your calm assurance by my side in the face of chaos. I need your compassion in times of despair. And I need the harmony you bring to my life.”
Laura couldn't speak. Her heart pounded, and her hands shook as tears of happiness ran down her cheek. Could it be that she was about to receive her heart's desire? Andrew released her hands and gently wiped away the tears with his thumbs. He placed one hand on either side of her face as he placed a gentle kiss first on her forehead, then on one eyelid, on the other, on her nose, and on each cheek, tracing the path of her tears. Laura held her breath, rejoicing at each touch of his lips on her face, wanting more with each kiss. Finally, when she thought she'd scream, his lips found hers. She matched his kiss with a fervor she'd never known she possessed, clinging to his shoulders, certain she would awaken and find it had all been a dream.
Abruptly, he broke the kiss and he folded her against his chest. They held each other until their heartbeats slowed and their ragged breaths calmed. His voice deepened to a rumble when he spoke again.
“Yours is the voice I want to hear each day. It is your face I want to see across the table when I dine. You alone can provide the serenity my life needs. Please tell me you will accept my offer.”
She spoke, though her heart sang, this time with overflowing joy. “Oh, yes. I accept.”
During her first career,
Patricia Kiyono
taught elementary music, computer classes, elementary classrooms, and junior high social studies. She now teaches music education at the university level. When she's not teaching or writing, she spends as much time as she can with her grandchildren, cheering them on at sporting and music events.
She lives in southwest Michigan with her husband, not far from her children and grandchildren. Current interests, aside from writing, include sewing, crocheting, scrapbooking, and music. A love of travel and an interest in faraway people inspires her to create stories about different cultures.
Chapter One
Monday, March 15, 1813
Golden hair, brilliant as the noontime sunshine, glowed in the light spilling through the coffee house window. A fringe of distracting curls peeked from beneath the rose-endowed bonnet, framing the owner's enchanting face, sensuous and appealing as springtime. Anne Kirkhoven, now Mrs. Frederick Shaw, seemed none the worse for her marital adventure as she breathed in the steam rising from her poised cup. Her eyes flickered open, as if she sensed his gaze through the window, and when she glanced up into his stare, over her new husband's shoulder, no surprise showed in her expression, only warmth and secretive delight. Of course she'd associate the coffee house with him.
Or at least, with his hunt of her.
Tasty little morsel that she'd been.
Another game completed. Another wonderful, beautiful woman whose dream had come true. Ernst Anton Oldenburg, His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, dropped a wink through the coffee house window and strolled with the fashionable promenade into the Strand. He'd done what he could for sweet Anne.
And so it was time for his next target.
Who should be slamming out of the Olympic Theater any moment now. And yes⦠there she was, just ahead, near the corner with Wych Street, her scarlet pelisse askew and flaring to either side like a billowing flame. With grinning, red-faced Finian Fitzwilliam on her heels.
Just as he should be.
When His Grace had first seen Beryl Wentworth, he'd thought her a little slip of a waif with enormous eyes and copper curls. Now that he'd done his homework, he'd modified his opinion: she was a little slip of a waif with enormous eyes, copper curls, and a flaming temper to match. In the weeks he'd been observing the pseudo-couple of Miss Beryl and Mr. Fitzwilliam, they hadn't yet enjoyed an entire entertainment of any variety without a violent emotional tempest exploding between them. Like the sun rising in the east and falling in the west, one could set a clock by their societal
interruptus
.
His Grace slipped into position behind them, stretching his longer legs to match her furious pace as she stalked across Holywell, heedless of the cursing from a curricle's driver as he hauled his matched Hackneys to a slithering stop. No need to get close; neither elegant combatant chose to modify their raised voices, and a number of merchants and walkers along the Strand turned and stared at their onrushing rampage as she led them past the church's pilastered and niched southern side.
"I can't believe you compared that horrid wig to Violetta's curls. They're nothing like and you know it." Deft hands straightened the scarlet pelisse's fur collar without slowing. The hemline seemed glued to Fitzwilliam's brown trousers by the winds of her passage.
"They're much like and any honest person will back the opinion, sure as I'm standing. Or walking. Same shape, same size, same ridiculous sausageynessâ"
"Ooo-oh!" She whirled on Fitzwilliam, bringing their little caravan to a halt in the middle of the narrow, busy sidewalk and jabbing one exquisite finger into his cravat. With her outerwear, copper curls, and sparks flying from her eyes, she looked like a torch, flaring brightly, among the ordinary townspeople edging around their little scene. "That was a comedic wig, designed to look ridiculous. Violetta's curls weren't. She's very proud of her appearanceâ"
"Well, perhaps she shouldn't be, elegant lass though she beâ"
The clear choice His Grace faced was to walk past their combat zone or pause and not even pretend to not notice them. No need to consider, really. His choice was not the most polite, perhaps, but far more entertaining than the alternative.
"âand perhaps you shouldn't be such an outrageous, opinionated boorâ"
"âand perhaps Miss de Lisle should find a new abigailâ"
"âI cannot believe you would so wantonly injure her in such an unfeeling mannerâ"
"âor at least look through a few more fashion plates; surely she'll find a more appealing hairstyle if she just tries, all sorts of other ladies doâ"
Both of them seemed to become aware of his looming, listening, vastly entertained presence at the same moment. Fitzwilliam glanced up with a scowl. Miss Beryl's eyes widened even further, huge glistening green pools a man could swim in and never need to come up for air. For a fraction of a second she seemed nonplussed.
Then her glance cut sideways to Fitzwilliam's red face. His intensely scowling red face. Just for a moment. And then she flashed
him
a smile and dipped a curtsey.
Brilliant. She knew how the game should be played.
"Good day, your grace."
"Miss Beryl, good day." He bowed over her hand, breathed gently onto the underside of her wrist, and let his fingers trail through hers as she shivered deliciously and withdrew. "It's been far too long. Was it Lady Baldwin's soiree?"
Another flashing smile, accompanied by a delighted dimple. "That was only last week."
"Indeed yes. Far, far too long a time." He'd maneuvered for the introduction between the Baldwin niece's Italian aria and her accomplished, intricate performance on the floor harp. Of course, Lady Baldwin had been too busy talking up her niece to oblige, but adorable Lady Gower, her predatorial eyes glittering with a hope of scandal, had been only too happy. And then she'd stood nearby, watching his performance as he'd charmed Miss Beryl, with more attention than she'd given sweet Miss Baldwin's. "It seems we never meet, certainly not sufficiently often. Forward rogue that I am, might I inquire as to your social schedule? There's the Holly Hall dinner tonight, the Kirkhoven card partyâ" not that he'd be invited to that one "âthe public assembly tomorrow night at the Hanover Square Roomsâ"
"I'll be with a party at the assembly rooms." Her voice was breathy, eager, tantalizing. She didn't glance aside again, instead leaning forward, toward
him
. Those huge eyes widened even more, their dark centers expanding and driving out the green. Oh, yes, a man could get lost in those eyes. Well, some men.
Miss Beryl promised to be the most intriguing of targets. And tasty wouldn't begin to describe her.
She was all but begging for the obvious question. So of courseâ