“I’m not interested in strolling with any of the Mayfair maidens. I’m interested in strolling with you.” Because she had no marriage-minded mama who’d be watching his every move with her daughter. It wouldn’t be significant for him to be spotted alone with a widow.
But more than that. He was interested in her. He had been for some time now.
“Very well.” It wasn’t a resoundingly enthusiastic response, but he doubted the lady was ever resoundingly enthusiastic for much of anything.
“Allow me a moment to put Rosa away.” Carefully setting his cello to the side, he opened the large leather case that had been custom-built to protect her for transport.
“You named it?” The question, like everything else she had said to this point, came out in mocking tones. Knowing it was a part of her armor, it didn’t bother him.
“She,” Peter corrected her. “She’s more than a possession. She’s my life. The least she deserves is a name, don’t you think?”
Lady Starling’s throat moved, as though his answer was difficult to swallow. “But it, pardon me, she, is replaceable. She’s an inanimate object—wood, metal, glue.”
Peter snapped the metal closures into place and stroked a hand along the leather. “But for now, she owns my heart.” It was the only way he could explain how he felt about the instrument. He’d owned several others before Rosa and cared equally for each and every one of them. But for today, Rosa was the one that brought his music to life.
He moved around to the opening of the dais, vaguely aware that Lady Starling drifted in the same direction to meet him.
“Shall I send for your wrap?” The evening was warm, but her gown might leave her catching a chill. By no means current on ladies’ fashion, Peter would nonetheless wager a year’s allowance that the plunging bodice of her garment challenged societal boundaries. The brilliant forest-green silk, almost identical to the color of her eyes, cinched in at her waist. The off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves draped lazily into the crooks of her elbows, where long satin gloves ended.
“I’m fine.” Her answer belied her expression. She was far from fine.
Peter winged an arm. “Shall we, then?”
Miranda hated the relief that came with tucking her hand on Peter Spencer’s arm.
When had she become this pathetic creature? A person who found herself envying an inanimate object? Because seeing this gentleman lovingly secure the instrument in its velvet-lined case had somehow managed to taunt her current state of aloneness.
Pathetic indeed.
She had become that woman. Beholden to no one, she did not conform to society’s dictates. She acknowledged her needs and pursued avenues for fulfillment. She would not apologize for who she was.
And, because of her gender, she would forever pay the price.
Before she’d felt him watching her, she’d already been caught in the emptiness of her need. When she’d met his gaze, the vacuum had widened, expanded.
She wasn’t so oblivious that she would fool herself. He’d pitied her—as had nearly every other guest who’d lowered themselves to speak with her tonight. Likely, she’d be criticized for sullying this charming young man with her company.
But he wanted her. Of that, she was fairly certain.
He was younger than her thirty years, perhaps closer to five and twenty. And he had an odd innocence about him.
“Are you as angelic as people say?” she couldn’t help asking.
He glanced over at her with raised brows and for a moment, she was lost in the blue of his eyes. Not grayish-blue or greenish-blue. If a perfect blue existed, it would be the color of Peter Spencer’s eyes.
“Depends on who you ask,” he answered. “My mother would be inclined to say yes but any of my siblings would disagree.”
She couldn’t imagine having family like that.
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” he asked.
“No.” She’d been raised by her widowed father. And Mrs. Lemur, her governess. “I was an only child. My mother died shortly after I was born.” Their steps echoed loudly on the parquet floor.
“My sympathies that you didn’t know your mother but also my congratulations that you didn’t have siblings to torment you.” He opened the French door and gestured for her to precede him into the shadowed garden.
“I always wanted a brother or sister.” Odd thing for her to tell him. But it was sweet that he’d pretend interest in her person, in any of the meaningless details of her life.
His sweetness made her feel jaded—jaded at the age of thirty. And guilty that she would defile him with her need.
Before marrying Lord Starling, she’d thought she’d enjoy being a widow—being answerable to no one. And yet she’d come to depend on his company—on his affection. Her husband’s death had left her feeling lonely. Perhaps it was this loneliness that unhinged her tonight. One too many snubs had cracked her armor.
A breeze stirred the leaves overhead, and the murmuring voices of the guests all but disappeared when the door closed behind them.
She half-expected him to slide one hand around her waist—and then lower—she’d invited him outside alone, after all. Instead, he tucked her hand into his arm again, leading her onto a wide garden path.
He’d told her he wasn’t interested in walking a Mayfair maiden. He’d said he was interested in walking with her. Heat spread to her core as she imagined how his interest might play out. They’d walk a little farther… Would he kiss her? Feign romance?
Torches burned at various intervals, shedding light on the flagstone walkway. They had been spaced far enough apart, however, that a couple could easily stop in the shadows. Would his kiss taste youthful and innocent? Or did he hide a secret wickedness?
“I wouldn’t trade my sister and brothers for the world.” He spoke matter of factly, without expectation, as though this was to be the most innocent of strolls. “I am lucky to have them.”
She’d accustomed herself to absorbing undercurrents of censure in most of her conversations. She sensed nothing like that from him.
“But families will go their separate ways. Eventually. They marry, they abandon you,” she added, almost to validate her own life in some way. “They die.”
“I suppose.” He sounded thoughtful. “You don’t get on well with your husband’s sisters?”
She had tried. When she’d received the invitation to stay with them in Brighton this spring, she’d been hopeful for their acceptance.
“I had hoped…” She sighed. “But their welcome came along with the stipulation that I hand over my inheritance.”
“Surely, Miranda, you must know that Baldwin made a mistake when he left his investment accounts to you.” Her late husband’s youngest sister, Susan, had waited two days into Miranda’s visit before commencing their campaign.
“He always intended it to be put back into the estates,” Agnes tacked on.
Because Agnes’s son, Peregrine, had inherited the title and all that came with it. Tenant rents provided more than adequate income, and there had been trusts set aside for each of them, but in their opinion, it wasn’t enough.
They hated that he’d left her anything, let alone the bulk of his unentailed wealth.