Fascination -and- Charmed (37 page)

How could he tell the girl that he knew in his heart that she had not and was not, but that his head required reassurance?

She tugged her hand free and continued upstairs. Arran caught up at the top of the flight. Grace said, “My mother will be beside herself with worry at my absence. Kindly excuse me.”

“You are my fiancée and you will not walk away when I am speaking to you.”

Her chin came up. “I am and always will be a woman with a strong mind. If you remember that, we shall do tolerably well.”

“If I ... You are
impossible.
Are you telling me that when you spoke of pursuing a friendship with me after your marriage—before you knew I was the marquess—you meant nothing more than that?
Friendship?
”

“What else could I possibly have meant?”

Arran expanded his chest and expelled the breath slowly. “Indeed. What else could you possibly have meant?” His damnable suspicion of all women had come close to robbing him of incredible happiness. Gratitude at his having stopped—for whatever reason—on the very brink of seducing an innocent mingled with the anticipation of doing that very thing: on his wedding night.

Grace advanced, and he fell in at her shoulder. “May I ask you to do something for me?” he said.

She paused, and he saw emotions flit over her features. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Would you please forgive my bad behavior toward you in the past?”

Her sudden smile was radiant. “Consider it forgiven and forgotten. Will you forgive me for taking so long to understand the battles you waged with your principles until it was almost too late?”

“Consider yourself forgiven.”

“Thank you. Oh, dear, the music has already begun again. That means I was missing throughout the refreshments. What will Mama think?”

A footman opened the door to the Muirs’ green drawing room, where the expected array of brilliantly dressed guests sat in rows. Laboring before the company, a misguided violinist struggled through part of a Paganini concerto.

Arran heard Grace murmur, “Oh dear,” and smiled.

“Mother Wren appears ... occupied?”

Grace placed a hand in front of her grin.
“
Mother
Wren? Mama would hate that. But she does seem quite happy, don’t you think?”

“I do think.” Mrs. Wren sat with a thin, graying man in exceedingly conservatively cut clothing who gazed at her with open admiration. “In fact, I wonder if she even knows you were not here.”

“Melony!” Grace whispered harshly. “I cannot believe it. There she sits, when she must think me still trapped in that beastly pavilion.”

Melony Pincham sat next to Blanche Wren, with Theodora to her right. As if she felt their presence, Mrs. Pincham turned. Her horrified gaze met Arran’s, then moved on to Grace. Even at a distance he saw the woman whiten.

“Why,” Grace said in a low voice, “I do not think Melony is at all glad to see that I am safe.”

Arran did not reply. Theodora hissed something into Mrs. Pincham’s ear, and she returned her attention to the front of the room.

There were several vacant seats on the other side of a narrow aisle, and Arran led Grace to sit down. He felt, as well as saw, heads begin to swivel in his direction. He heard, very clearly, murmured comments across the room, and he held his mouth in a grim line. Let them exclaim at the sight of Stonehaven. They’d thought him gone from their midst forever. He would be glad to absent himself again as soon as he’d made certain every one of them knew he’d made another trip to the altar.

The painful performance drew to a close, but instead of the expected swell of conversation, a storm of whispers passed through the assembly. One pair of eyes after another made brief contact with Arran’s before swiftly moving away. And there were the eyes of young women that tried to hold his, to gain his attention—and the gracious nods of more than one or two hopeful mamas. They had enjoyed their shredding of his reputation, but they would be more than happy to secure entrance to Kirkcaldy and a right to the Stonehaven fortune.

“They are all looking at you,” Grace said. “And they look so spiteful. I should like to tell them all exactly what I think of them.” She slipped her hand through his arm.

“I do believe you feel protective of me,” he said. “Tell me what you would tell these magpies.”

“That they are nothing and you are everything, of course.”

“How have I managed to earn such esteem, I wonder?”

“You have earned it despite yourself,” she told him tartly. “Fortunately, I am very perceptive and I was able to see through your nasty humors. There are still things I wish to know about you, but I’m persuaded that your answers—when you choose to. give them—will satisfy me. In the meantime, I am not going to speak to a single one of these
avid
people.
Look
at them. They are positively
popping
with curiosity about you.”

“Let them pop,” he said mildly. The feel of Grace’s hand tightly holding his arm was more than pleasant—so was the warmth of her shoulder.

Lady Muir, florid but distinguished in plum-colored velvet, rose and stood before her guests. “And now we come to the portion of the program for which we have all waited,” she said. “May I present to you the most distinguished pianist to grace any Scottish drawing room at any time. Mr. Gallatin Plethero.”

Arran opened his mouth but found the air in the room had been entirely removed. Darkness gathered at the edges of his mind. He must remain calm and he must show nothing of what he felt.

“Have you heard this musician?” Grace asked. She continued to catch glances cast in their direction and to deliver deathly glares in response.

Arran said, “I may have heard him.”

“Good evening,” Plethero said, arrogantly putting aside polite address. “And it is indeed a good evening for all of us. I am grateful to Sir Alistair and Lady Muir for inviting me to play for you. The following are several works by an anonymous composer. Some of you will have heard me play them before.”

A presence arrived at Arran’s side, and he looked up into Calum’s face. He bent to speak into Arran’s ear. “This is long overdue.”

Arran didn’t reply. Calum pulled up a chair and sat beside him.

Plethero played brilliantly, with absolute control and confidence—and with an empathy with the music that turned Arran’s heart. Plethero played as if Arran’s music had been drawn from his own soul.

The first arrangement was “The Children.” Arran had composed it with visions of the tenant children at play romping across his mind. He closed his eyes and saw whirling arms and legs and bright smiles beneath a bright sun. He saw little hands clasping little hands and swinging and swinging—and he heard the sound of children laughing.

Then there was silence.

But only for a moment before applause, delighted, enthusiastic applause, broke out amid cries of “Bravo!”

Plethero turned on his piano bench and made a deep, self-contained bow.

“You are inspired,” Calum said in low tones. “A genius.”

“I am an interpreter,” Arran responded. “I take other people’s moments and write them as notes. There is your genius.” He indicated Plethero.

“Thank you,” the pianist said loudly. “Thank you.”

Arran heard his “Seashore” and knew once more the wonder of soft surf seeking purchase on dark gold sand, and falling back again, bubbling, popping—and returning again and again, endlessly.

When the ovation finally subsided, Gallatin Plethero swept the fingers of his right hand over the keys, raised a knowing brow at his rapt listeners, and paraded Arran’s “Girls at a London Ball” for all to hear.

Grace shook Arran’s arm. “Listen,” she whispered.

“He’s very good.” Arran felt half-sick, half-thrilled to his core. He’d been right to choose this man. Plethero was indeed the genius. He took a muddler’s rough efforts and smoothed them into wonders.

“He doesn’t play it as well as you,” Grace said.

Everything within him became instantly, utterly, still. He could not breathe. He was not sure he still thought at all. Surely his heart did not beat.

“Arran, when you play this, the colors are brighter,” Grace murmured, leaning against him as if they were the oldest of friends between whom there were no constraints. “I’m sure whoever wrote this was thinking of a grand ball. But there is a sadness. A whimsical sadness. Only, you make me feel it more.”

She spoke as if she’d heard him play the piece many times, rather than once and incompletely.

Again, as Plethero finished, the audience leapt to their feet, clapping madly and shouting for more. Arran found himself standing beside Grace, with Calum at his other elbow, applauding with the rest.

“More!” a man’s voice demanded.

“More! More!” went up the echo from dozens of others.

Plethero, standing to take his leave, held up humble hands and waited for the din to subside. “Very well. For you I will play one more piece. Other than by its composer, it has been played only by me. It has never been played in public before. I had thought to wait a little longer. To work with it a little longer. But now is the right moment. I’m not certain why, but I feel it. Short, but utterly haunting.”

Before a single note was played, Arran knew what he would hear. He sank back in his chair and spread a hand over his eyes. The man had it right. Skirts filling with the breeze, twirling about slender legs and falling again about slim ankles. Silver-blond hair spraying wide—like dandelion puffs beneath a blinding noon sun.

A rustle drew him partway out of his trance. Grace had moved to the front of her seat and strained even farther forward. A nimbus shimmered along her profile, her throat, over the smooth lines of her coiffure.

Notes cascaded beneath Plethero’s fingers.

Come, dance with me,
his imp—his imp of the sunshine now—called, offering him her hands.

Grace turned to stare at him, her amber eyes huge. Then, as if she had forgotten they were not the only two present, she touched his cheek, skimmed his mouth, and stared down at his hands.

Plethero made the music magical. He made it exactly what Arran had intended it to be.

The final notes slipped softly away, and in the momentary hush that followed, Plethero said, “The composer gave us an extra small gift this time. He let us know that the piece is entitled: ‘Grace.’”

Arran returned her probing gaze. The music he’d written whilst thinking only of Grace had moved her more than all the rest. How odd.

There were no more encores. People stood and milled and chattered.

Grace let Arran draw her up, but she continued to look only at him. “You liked it, didn’t you?” He hoped he sounded light, indifferent.

“Stonehaven!” Blanche Wren bobbed about beside them. “I had no idea you intended to be here. How perfectly wonderful. Please meet my friend, the Reverend Felix Bastion.”

“How do you do,” Arran said, never taking his attention from Grace.

“Yes, well ...” Blanche drifted away, and others took her place. Theodora. La Pincham—babbling at Grace about not knowing what to do. He heard Grace say, “It doesn’t matter,” and then she smiled at him and they strolled, tightly arm in arm, from the room and downstairs.

The sight of Mortimer, slipping through the front door, caused Arran no more than an instant’s irritation. The girl on his arm was different. She made
him
different.

“I want to talk about it,” she told him.

“We shall talk about whatever pleases you.”

Others began to stream down behind them into the hall. Melony Pincham was a splash of magenta silk that converged with Mortimer only feet away, and Arran heard him tell her, “It’s all right. Everything’s all right.” Then, “She’s been found, thank God.”

Pretty. Very pretty. If anyone should overhear and know that Grace had been missing, they’d assume Mortimer to be suitably concerned for her safety.

The distance between the Muirs’ and Arran’s own house on Charlotte Square was short. With Grace warmly wrapped in a fur-lined cloak that matched her dress and with a draping hood over her hair, they walked very slowly home.

“Home,” Arran said aloud at his front door. “This is one of your homes. All of my homes will soon be yours.”

“Thank you,” she said, and touched his mouth again in that way that caused his stomach to fall. “The music is beautiful.”

“I’m glad you liked it. I have wanted to tell you that I hung the painting you gave me in my sitting room.”

“You did?” She sounded vague. “Thank you.”

“Thank
you
. I am glad Calum found you for me.”

“So am I.”

He kissed her then, gently, tasting her sweetness. Drawing her carefully against him, he moved his lips from hers and kissed his way fleetingly along her jaw until he could nuzzle into her neck.

“You named it after me.”

He grew still.

“You did, didn’t you?” Her voice broke. “And you composed all that music, didn’t you?”

“Grace—”

“The night when ... After I threw the ruby girdle at you, I decided to go to the gallery and take my paints. I had thought to return to London, but you were there and ... I heard you play ‘Grace.’”

“I—”

“Hush. The pianist said that before him, it had only been played by its composer. I heard you play it. That can only mean that you wrote it. And you named it for me.”

“Yes,” he admitted, finally raising his face.

“I don’t know exactly how I know, but I do. All of it. All of that music was yours. And you prefer to take none of the credit. You are the most wonderful man I’ve ever met.”

Arran pushed down the hood and cradled her head, brushed his thumbs back and forth over her ears. “I am the most fortunate man you have ever met. What else can I be when outrageous chance chose to bless me with you?”

The front door opened behind Grace. Wiffen, the Charlotte Square butler for many years, cleared his throat, and Arran nodded shortly at him. Wiffen managed the serene countenance of the perfect servant, despite the fact that he was confronted with his master for the first time in more than five years.

“Good evening, Wiffen,” Arran said, dropping his hands to Grace’s shoulders and turning her carefully toward the house. “My fiancée and I will take brandy in the library.”