“Then again, after one’s elderly bride gives up the ghost, one can be rich and independent and obliged to no one,” Lizzy pointed out.
“An enviable state of being,” Mr. Marsden said. “But it is my firm belief that a man should whore himself out only for necessities, never luxuries.”
Matthew Marsden and Mr. Moore both whistled. Lizzy raised an arch brow. “And what do you consider necessities, Mr. Marsden?”
“Coal, Camembert, wine, books, and”—he tossed her a mischievous look—“occasional tickets to symphonic concerts.”
“Oh, yes,” said Matthew Marsden earnestly. “I agree wholeheartedly. Symphonic concerts are an absolute necessity in life. There were years when I pined daily for the chance of one.”
Lizzy spat out her tea, laughing. Three sets of handkerchiefs immediately appeared before her, along with puzzled glances from Matthew Marsden and Mr. Moore. Mr. Marsden laughed silently, his shoulders shaking. She took his handkerchief and wiped herself, her mirth too great to be embarrassed.
“What’s so funny?” demanded Matthew Marsden.
“I’ll tell you later,” said his elder brother. “Now the two of you had best hurry or you’ll be late for tea at Miss Moore’s.”
Mr. Moore jumped up. “My aunt does hate unpunctuality. Quickly, for the sake of my place in her will.”
Everyone laughed. Matthew Marsden and Mr. Moore shook hands warmly with Lizzy and then ran down the steps like a stampede of buffalos.
She remained on her feet after the leave-taking. Mr. Marsden, after casting a quiet glance at her, moved to the window. The afternoon’s sun was about to sink beneath the roof of the opposite houses. One last ray managed the angle, penetrated the panes, and embraced him in a blaze of light. His hair shone as if it had been painted by Vermeer, strand by strand.
“I like your brother. He seems a very good sort of man,” Lizzy said, her voice tentative now that she was alone with him. She had been alone with him on other occasions, but somehow, in his drawing room, alone felt more completely alone.
“Matthew is an angel,” he answered.
“And is Mr. Moore…?”
“No, Mr. Moore is a friend. The one Matthew loved passed away three months ago—he is still in mourning.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize.”
“Matthew is a very private person. On a par with Mr. Somerset, I would say.”
The mention of her fiancé’s name brought back reality—and the purpose of her visit. She’d better get to it—on Sunday afternoons the servants had leave and absented themselves from the house, but her father would wake up from his nap soon enough and wonder where she’d gone unaccompanied.
“Should I ring for more tea?” asked Mr. Marsden.
She shook her head. Since nothing could serve as a proper preliminary to the sort of questions she intended to ask, she skipped the preamble altogether. “Was it you who sent me flowers when I was unwell?”
He walked to the table and poured cold tea into a cup, the clear, umber fluid arcing silver in the light that seemed to have followed him. “It took you this long to realize?”
“It did. Your demeanor did not lead me to suspect you.”
“It’s always easier to pretend not to care.”
Then it meant he did care. Her heart soared—and crashed at the same time. God, five weeks to her wedding. “I thought it was Mr. Somerset.”
“You are blind, Miss Bessler.”
“Yes, I was.” His wet handkerchief she’d wadded and discarded on the tea table. Now she opened it and pulled the corners straight. “So…you have formed an attachment to me.”
“Is that what the English call the desire for symphonic concerts at all hours of the day with someone?”
She reached for the cold tea he’d poured and drank it. “You are English yourself. You know very well that is indeed what we call it.”
“All right, then. I have formed an attachment to you that has lasted beyond all reasonable expectations to the contrary. It is extraordinarily unruly and bothersome. Have you any advice on how this condition may be ameliorated?”
She didn’t want it ameliorated. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”
“When I thought that you’d have more interest in a bosom friend than a man?”
“You are not very careful in choosing to whom you form your attachments, are you, Mr. Marsden?”
“Attachments are what they are. We but find reasons to justify them.”
“What was your reason, then, all the while you still thought that I was a follower of Sappho?”
“That Madame Belleau could be wrong.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?”
“I didn’t want to find out that she was right. But then, when it seemed that you might marry Mr. Somerset, I couldn’t stop myself—an impulse I’ve regretted very much since.”
She looked up sharply. “Why? You wanted her to be wrong. You know now that she was wrong.”
“Yes, but it would have been easier to accept your marriage to Mr. Somerset had I believed otherwise.”