Lady Wild (13 page)

It bespoke a lifetime of loss, of love, of pain, of knowing it was all worth the cost.

He should have been walking away, not toward the dowager’s room, but nothing it seemed could stop the pull of that music. Andrew paused before her door and placed his fingers on the handle.

He hesitated. The music filled the air, sending slight vibrations up through the wooden door and brass latch. His fingers hummed, and he closed his eyes.

He’d left Ophelia at her door. Oh, he was committed to her seduction. But not tonight, not when her hard words still resonated deep within his heart.

You assume I’d accept.

Those fatal words carried the same lamentable force as Chopin’s desolate composition.

Not giving a damn for propriety, Andrew opened the door quietly, entered and closed it with a soft snick. He lingered, his gaze transfixed.

Moonlight shone in through the tall windows that faced the garden, beaming down onto Lady Darlington, casting her in its silver-blue hue. She played by that light and no other.

Her long hair flowed over her back, a shining curtain in the faint glow. Despite the frailty of her body, her arms moved with vigor, her emaciated fingers mastering the keys.

Such self-possession he’d never seen. One might have never guessed Lady Darlington was defying death’s reaching grasp, what with the passion her spirit held on.

The last notes reverberated through the room, and her body, so full of vigor, came to stillness. She drew in a long breath, her slender shoulders expanding ever so slightly beneath her blue silk robe. Her fingers rested on the ivory. “You’re in the wrong room, Andrew.”

He blinked.

Slowly, almost painfully, she turned, her movements stuttering as she braced herself on the lip of the piano. “You’ve had a disagreement with Ophelia? She’s quite stubborn.”

“Surely you don’t mean—”

“What else could I mean, dear boy? You love her, don’t you? You should be with her, not an old woman.”

He nearly barked an emphatic
denial, but what would be the point? Instead, he drew in a long breath, then stepped farther into the room. “Your company is exactly what I require.”

She gave him a wry smile. “You prefer older women, is that it?”

“I—”

“Oh, Andrew, what are you so afraid of? You’re as bad as my daughter.”

He winced. “Your daughter doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything.”

“Don’t let her fool you.”

“Ophelia would laugh at the devil.”

“Oh, she might, but she’d do it to hide the quaking of her heart. She’s known too much pain in this life. Like you.”

He snorted. “We’ve all known pain.”

“We have. But yours, Andrew? Yours has made a home in your heart, carving out a dwelling place. You must evict it or you shall never be happy.”

Was that why he’d wandered down the halls, drawn by her music? To be told such platitudes? Except they weren’t platitudes. The way they hurt, they were truths, for he’d learned long ago that it wasn’t lies that ripped out one’s heart. “I don’t know about happiness. I think it’s a myth.

She laughed. “Oh, it exists, but only for those who work for it. Happiness is a demanding taskmaster.” She raised her arms, the sleeves of her embroidered gown swooping about her, then beckoned. “Come. Sit by me.”

Andrew hesitated again. He shouldn’t be here. But he could deny the older lady nothing, and in truth, it was exactly what he wanted. The wise words of a mother. Silently, he crossed and lowered himself gently onto the damask-covered bench before the piano.

“Do you play?” she asked. “You do, don’t you? I can tell.”

How he wished he could contradict her. But he did play. In fact, the piano was his. He had kept it in his room since the day he’d claimed the house and his title. But the moment he’d learned of her love of playing, he’d been determined that she should have it for as long as. . .as long as she was able. Now, he was glad he had given his piano to her, for the joy of music had graced her face.

It was a face already touched by grace. Still, he was still glad to have been able to give her something she so enjoyed.

She placed a withered hand on his strong forearm. “Beethoven or Chopin?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What shall we play?”

He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her hand. Once, it had been slim, the fingers long and delicate, glowing pink and white with health. Now, it shook slightly, and the bones strained against the slightly spotted skin. Even so, it was perhaps the most purely loving touch he’d ever known. “I wish you’d been my mother.”

The words were out before he could stop them, and they rang in the air, dangerous, full of longing. He couldn’t take them back. He waited for her to laugh.

Instead, that frail hand lifted, and she stroked his dark hair back from his face, then gently cupped his cheek. “My dear Andrew, I am. And you are my son.”

His throat tightened as the sting of tears burned his eyes.

She gazed up at him, her gaze open, soft, full of love. “I know it in my heart. I knew it the moment I saw you, that you would be my boy.”

“I don’t know if Ophelia will ever—”

“Shh.” That soft hand of hers pressed against his mouth to silence him. Then she took his big hands in hers. “Now. I do believe you and Ophelia are meant for each other, but I will not have you believe that my love is conditional, Andrew. Love is never conditional. If someone attempts to give you conditions, then it was never love they gave you.”

Andrew gasped back his pain. “I do not know if I can make her love me.”

“She already does. That will not be your problem.”

How easily Ophelia’s mother said such things. “Then what is my problem?”

“She has no idea how to trust the male sex, Andrew. Her father died, leaving her, and her brother hurt her very badly. She loved them both. So she is wary of giving her heart freely again. You must earn her trust if it is her love you seek.”

“I am not trustworthy.”

“If you never try, you never shall be.”

Good God. She was forthright. She wasn’t trying to convince him of his good character, or that he’d secretly been a good man all along. Oh no. She was simply telling him to change. “What if I can’t?”

“Then you embrace your unhappiness. You choose it. Unhappiness doesn’t force you to its lonely path.” She squeezed his hand. “There now, I wager your mother never said such harsh things.”

He stared at her a long moment. “My mother never said anything to me. Not beyond the odd comment about my appearance.”

“Well, then.” She smiled softly. “It was high time someone took you in hand.”

“I suppose. I never thought I was worth taking in hand.”

“Ah. Now, I’m going to tell you something very important. And you must listen.”

“Yes?”

“Ophelia can never make you feel worthy.”

“I know I’ve done things. Said things. But surely she can—”

“You’re not listening,” she admonished.

“Forgive me.”

“But there’s the point of it, Andrew. The only person who can forgive you is you. And the only person who can deem you worthy is you. If you allow others to determine your worth, you shall allow others to hold your fate in their hands. Take responsibility for your own life, my dear boy, and always remember you are a precious child of this universe who was born worthy and will die worthy. No one but you can take that away.”

To his horror, a tear slipped down his cheek. He resisted the urge to dash it away, but rather let it fall. “Thank you, Lady Darlington.”

“Mama,” she said softly.

“Thank you. . .Mama.”

“Good. Now let us play. Something with verve. Beethoven, I think.”

And so Andrew faced the piano with the mother of his heart, a little boy who finally knew he was loved, and was suddenly aware of how wonderful life could be.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The only way to survive

is to protect one’s heart.

-Ophelia’s Notebook

Ophelia sat very still, chin tilted up, gaze skyward, her hands lightly clasping a dagger with the point carefully positioned against her red velvet-covered breasts. Apparently, she was Juliet, longing for her Romeo.

It was a surprisingly sympathetic pose. One that filled her heart with longing. Longing for the dratted man standing in the back of the studio keeping a wary eye upon Rossetti as the artist worked, sketching wildly over a large canvas.

Andrew had left her at her door last night. After awakening her body, after kissing her with a passion she’d never even conceived of, he’d left her. Why hadn’t he followed her into her room to finish what they had begun?

What had changed?

And good Lord. The night had been filled with music.

She’d sat in her room, listening to her mother play. When she’d opened her door, ready to go to her mother and sit beside her, she’d spotted Andrew slipping into her mother’s room.

There had been silence for sometime and then. . . Then they’d begun to play together. Duet after duet after duet.

Ophelia had never played well, preferring to listen to her mother, savoring the feeling of being transported by such impassioned playing.

She’d been temped to burst in on them and demand to know why they kept the house up at all hours. But she’d known jealousy motivated her, jealousy that Andrew shared something with her mother that she never could. And perhaps a simple jealousy of the ease with which Andrew had seemingly bared his heart to Lady Darlington.

Why couldn’t he bare his heart to
her
?

When would she learn? When would she finally learn that giving one’s heart to another was horrifyingly dangerous? Oh, it was all well and good to live for pleasure, without fear, but she couldn’t risk losing anyone else.

She’d lost her father. Granted, he’d not wished to leave her. But in the end, she had felt abandoned just the same.

She’d lost her half-brother, whom she’d once adored. What a fool she’d been in that regard. How he must have secretly hated her to cut her so easily from his life.

And now she was losing her mother. This hurt most of all. For her mother was her rock, the constant in her ever-shifting, changing world. Now, there would be no one left to love her best. To love her no matter what good or bad choices she made or despite what she might do wrong.

Ophelia refused to make the mistake of placing her heart in Andrew’s hands. For surely, whether he willed it or no, he would abandon her, too.

That was the point of it. Life could steal Andrew from her. So she would have to ensure that she never loved him too well. She’d have to. Or she’d risk more pain than she could bear.

She frowned. That wasn’t what her mother had meant when she’d said to embrace life. Ophelia swallowed, dismayed to realize that perhaps she wasn’t as courageous as her mother thought.

Banging and pounding filled the hallway, mixed with the cacophony of several voices.

Despite herself, her gaze slipped to the open doorway.

“Don’t move,” roared Rossetti.

She snapped her face back to the light, attempting to recapture the rapture Rossetti had assured her she’d found. But the voices became clearer, one of them absolutely distinct and
female
.

Ophelia jumped to her feet, nearly tripping on the yards of velvet draped over her. “Mama,” she cried, horrified.

Yet, her mother beamed with delight as two footmen maneuvered her litter into the artist’s studio. The footmen, in their Stark livery, struggled to negotiate the narrow passageway, their white wigs askew and their faces strained, no doubt from fear of upending their delicate cargo.

“Good afternoon, my darling,” her mother called as the footmen lowered the litter next to Andrew, who did
not
appear at all surprised.

“Wh-what?” Ophelia snapped her gaze from Andrew to her mother, then back again.

“Hold still,” bellowed Rossetti, his black brows drawing together as he pointed his charcoal at her.

“Yes, do hold still for Mr. Rossetti,” her mother said, as if she wasn’t deathly ill or that her appearance in a third-floor art studio in a slightly questionable part of the city was commonplace.

Ophelia glared at Andrew, ready to hike up her velvet, medieval-style skirts, stride across the room, and shake him. She bit out, “What has possessed you to—”

“Ensure your mother enjoys herself?” he queried, a playful grin teasing his mouth. “Why, I am determined to keep the promise I made in Sussex.”

“And which promise was that?” she gritted.

Andrew’s grin dimmed, and he stared back at her solemnly. “That she not simply fade away.”

Her mother, in a stunning, wine-red brocade gown and black cloak with gold buttons, leaned forward, her silver hair curled about her strained though joyful face. “Andrew here promised me that I should live very differently than I had been, and last night, we sorted out my last few days.”