of their situation. What had he been thinking to allow Ross and the all-too-lively Genna to go off into the recesses of the house? Why the devil had Tinmore not simply refused the invitation? Why send his wife and her sister alone?
He realised they were standing in the drawing room.
She gestured to the pianoforte. ‘Shall I play for you?’
‘If you wish.’ It would save him from attempting conversation with her, something that seemed to fail him of late.
She sat at the pianoforte and started to play. After the first few hesitant notes, she seemed to lose her self-consciousness and her playing became more assured and fluid. He recognised the piece she chose. It was one his sister used to play—Mozart’s Andante Grazioso. The memory stabbed at his heart.
Lorene played the piece with skill and feeling. When she came to the end and looked up at him, he immediately said, ‘Play another.’
This time she began confidently—Pathétique by Beethoven—and he fancied she showed in the music that sadness he sensed in her. It touched his own.
And drew him to her in a manner that was not to be advised.
She was married to a man who wielded much influence in the House of Lords. Dell would be new to the body. Ross was right. He needed to tread carefully if he wished to do any good.
When Lorene finished this piece, she automatically went on to another, then another, each one filled with melancholy. With yearning.
The music moved him.
She moved him.
When she finally placed her hands in her lap, they were trembling. ‘That is all I know by heart.’
‘Surely there is sheet music here.’ He looked around the pianoforte.
She rose and opened a nearby cabinet. ‘It is in here.’ She removed the top sheet and looked at it. ‘Oh. It is a song I used to play.’
‘Play it if you like.’ After all, what could he say to her if she stopped playing? His insides were already shredded.
She placed the sheet on the music rack, played the first notes and, to his surprise, began to sing.
I have a silent sorrow here,
A grief I’ll ne’er impart;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart.
This cherished woe, this loved despair,
My lot for ever be,
So my soul’s lord, the pangs to bear
Be never known by thee.
Her voice was clear and pure and the feeling behind the lyrics suggested this was a song that had meaning for her. What was her ‘cherished woe’, her ‘loved despair’? He knew what his grief was.
She finished the song and lifted her eyes to his.
‘Lorene,’ he murmured.
There was a knock on the door, breaking his reverie.
The butler appeared. ‘Beg pardon, sir, my lady.’
‘What is it, Jeffers?’ Dell asked, his voice unsteady.
‘The weather, sir,’ Jeffers said. ‘A storm. It has begun to snow and sleet.’
Lorene paled and stood. Dell stepped towards the window. She brushed against him as he opened the curtains with his hand. They both looked out on to ground already tinged with white. The hiss of sleet, now so clear, must have been obscured by the music.
She spun around. ‘We must leave! Where is Genna?’
‘I sent Becker to find her,’ Jeffers said.
‘Well done, Jeffers. Alert the stables to ready the carriage.’ Dell turned towards Lorene. ‘You might still make it home if you can leave immediately.’
Lorene placed her hands on her cheeks. ‘We did not expect bad weather.’
Dell touched her arm, concerned by her distress. ‘Try not to worry.’
‘Where is Genna?’ she cried, rushing from the room. ‘Why did she have to tour the house?’
* * *
Genna led Ross through dark narrow corridors, stopping at doors that opened into the other bedchambers. On the other side, the doors to the secret passageways were nearly invisible to the eye. While they navigated this labyrinth, sometimes they heard music.
‘Lorene must be playing the pianoforte,’ Genna said.
The music wafting through the air merely made their excursion seem more fanciful.
It was like a game. Ross tried to guess what room they’d come upon next with the floor plan of the house fixed in his mind, but he was often wrong. Genna navigated the spaces with ease, though, and he could imagine her as a little girl running through these same spaces.
She opened a door on to the schoolroom. ‘Is it not bizarre? The passageways even lead here. Why would my great-grandfather care if servants were seen in the nursery?’
‘I wonder why he built the whole thing,’ Ross said.
She grinned. ‘It made for wonderful games of hide and seek.’
He could picture it in his mind’s eye. The neglected children running through the secret parts of the house as if the passages had been created for their amusement.
‘It even leads to the attic!’ They came upon some stairs and she climbed to the top, opening a door into a huge room filled with boxes, chests and old furniture. Their little lamp illuminated only a small part of it.
Ross’s shoe kicked something. He leaned down and picked up what looked like a large bound book.
‘What is that?’ she asked, turning to see.
He handed it to her and she opened it.
‘Oh! It is my sketchbook.’ Heedless of the dust, she sat cross-legged on the floor and placed the lamp nearby. She leafed through the pages. ‘Oh, my goodness. I thought this was gone for ever!’
‘What is it doing up here?’ he asked.
‘I hid it for safekeeping and then I could not remember where it was.’ She closed it and hugged it to her. ‘I cannot believe you found it!’
‘Tripped over it, you mean.’ He made light of it, but her voice had cracked with emotion.
When had he ever met a woman who wore her emotions so plainly on her sleeve? And yet...there was more she kept hidden. From everyone, he suspected. With luck the Christmas season would afford him the opportunity to see more of her.
She opened the book again and turned the pages. Illuminated by the lamp, her face glowed, looking even lovelier than she’d appeared before. Her hair glittered like threads of gold and her blue eyes were like sapphires, shadowed by long lashes. What might it be like to comb his fingers through those golden locks and to have her eyes darken with desire?
He stepped back.
For all the scandal in her family she was still a respectable young woman. A dalliance with her would only dishonour her and neither she nor he wished for something more honourable—like marriage.
The time was nearing when he would be forced to pick among the daughters of the ton for a wife worthy of becoming a duchess. Not yet, though. Not yet.
She looked up at him. ‘What should I do with it?’
‘Take it, if you wish. It is yours.’
Her brow creased. ‘Would Lord Penford mind, do you think? He might not like knowing I was poking through the attic.’
He shrugged. ‘I cannot think he would care.’
She