And she, of course, realized it too. She sparkled again as soon as they stepped inside the drawing room. Almost everyone was dancing. Fleur Hamilton was playing the pianoforte.
FLEUR WAS THE LAST to leave the drawing room. The dancers had all drifted away to bed, and a few servants had come in to roll out the carpet and set the room to rights again. She sorted through the music and decided to return it to the music room before going to bed herself.
It was very late. She felt tired. But she did not want to go to bed. She preferred her thoughts when she was somewhat in control of them. She did not want the nightmares that so frequently disturbed her sleep.
She set the branch of candles she had brought with her on top of the pianoforte in the music room and put the music away neatly. And she reached out a hand for the candles again.
But the pianoforte, so much larger and more mellow in tone than the one in the drawing room, drew her like a magnet. She ran her fingers lightly over the keys, not depressing them. And she played a scale, slowly and softly. She seated herself on the stool.
She played Bach, a crisp, fast sonata, her eyes closed. She played rather loudly. Perhaps if she concentrated hard enough, played briskly enough, she could drown out her thoughts.
Perhaps she could drown out Matthew.
But inevitably the music came to an end. She must open her eyes and go upstairs to her bed and accept whatever the remainder of the night had to offer her. She sighed. Last evening with Mr. Chamberlain seemed such a long time in the past already.
“I wish I had enough command of the keyboard to be able to work out my frustrations in that manner,” a voice said from behind her.
The Duke of Ridgeway! Fleur leapt to her feet.
“I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he said. “I couldn’t resist coming a little closer when I heard the music.”
“I’m sorry, your grace,” Fleur said. “I brought the music back. I could not stop myself from playing just one piece.”
“After playing all evening?” he said with a smile. “I must thank you for that, Miss Hamilton. I am very grateful.”
“It was my pleasure, your grace,” she said.
He walked a few steps closer to her. “It was you up in the gallery?” he asked. “You and Brocklehurst?”
She felt herself turn cold. “Yes, your grace.”
“Did you go with him freely?” he asked. “Did he force you?”
“No, your grace.” She watched his dark eyes. Was she about to be dismissed?
“And this.” He indicated her slightly swollen upper lip. “It is cut on the inside?”
She did not answer him.
“It was with your consent?” he asked.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat when no sound came out. “Yes, your grace.”
His lips thinned as he looked up to meet her eyes. And he passed a hand over his eyes and shook his head. “Come into the library with me,” he said, “for a nightcap.”
He moved toward the library door without looking back to see if she followed. But he did look back when he opened the door, his eyebrows raised. Fleur crossed the room and preceded him into the library, where candles had been lighted.
He poured her some sherry, and brandy for himself. He indicated the comfortable leather chair at one side of the fireplace and handed her her glass before taking the chair at the other side.
“Here’s to good health, Fleur Hamilton,” he said, raising his glass to her, “and to happiness. An elusive something, that last, is it not?” He drank some of his brandy.
Fleur sipped her sherry and did not answer. He was sprawled on his chair, relaxed, comfortable, informal. She sat straight and tense on her own.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Oh, nothing that will uncover the mystery in which you like to shroud yourself. Who taught you to play?”
“My mother,” she said, “when I was very young. My guardian hired a music teacher for his own children and me after that. And at school.”
“At school,” he said. “Where did you go? No, you will not wish to answer that, I suppose. How long were you there?”
“For five years,” she said. “It was Broadridge School. I told Mr. Houghton.”
He nodded. “A long time,” he said. “Did you like it, apart from the music and dancing lessons?”
“I believe I had a good education there,” she said. “But discipline was strict and humorless. There was very little warmth of feeling there.”
“But your guardian continued to send you?” he said. “Was there much warmth of feeling at home?”
She looked down into the sherry in her glass. “We were a wonderfully happy family while my parents were alive,” she said. “Nothing could appear very warm with them gone. I was too young. I daresay I was difficult to manage.”