“I’m only here because I wanted to see his brother again,” Patricia LeMere put in. “Niall. Did you see his eyes? I could just swoon.”
Oh, please. They didn’t even know Niall, or if he would catch any female foolish enough to swoon. She rather doubted it. Perhaps he might pick a lady up after she fainted, but he might well laugh at her first for being so delicate. Coll, on the other hand, might prefer a fainter.
“Where will they be next?” Elizabeth insisted. “I didn’t attend the picnic, so I haven’t even seen him yet. Everyone says he’s too handsome for words. Will he be at the Spenfield ball?”
“But I wasn’t invited this year,” Patricia complained, a pout in her voice. “‘Too many females,’ they said. That isn’t fair, is it?”
“Your parents could hold a soiree for you, and invite only men,” Amelia-Rose suggested, trying to pay attention as the Duke of Dunhurst’s granddaughter Maria attempted something horrid on the pianoforte, poor thing.
“That would make everyone think me unmarriageable and desperate,” Patricia whispered back. “Really, Amy.”
“You haven’t been helpful at all,” Elizabeth seconded.
“Then ask Eloise where they might be,” Amelia-Rose suggested. “She’s their sister.” For heaven’s sake, she hadn’t seen a MacTaggert for better than a day herself, and she was supposedly to join the family. Not that she’d been looking for any of them, or one in particular.
“Don’t mind if I do,” one or the other of the girls retorted.
Amelia-Rose’s mother sat down beside her. “It’s your turn next, my dear. Do pay attention, so the others will do you the same courtesy.”
“I am paying attention.”
“Hush.” Victoria Baxter folded her hands in her lap. “I especially arranged for you to go directly after Maria Vance-Hayden; you will show very well, you know.”
Privately she’d hoped that Maria’s musical skills had improved since the beginning of the Season; the young lady was myopic and shy as a mouse as it was. Squinting and muttering would never find her a husband, but a fair turn at music could only help. Alas, either her ability or her nerves seemed to be betraying her yet again.
Finally the duke’s granddaughter stood and curtsied, her music clutched to her chest. Polite applause followed, and then their hostess Lady Curry stood. “Our next recitalist is Amelia-Rose Baxter. Miss Baxter?”
Taking and holding a deep breath, Amelia-Rose stood, nodded, and ascended the single step to the raised stage. Four dozen faces gazed at her expectantly, at least a third of them more than likely hoping she would be all thumbs. Another third didn’t care and had come to the recital for the punch and biscuits, while the last third claimed to be supportive but knew that a horrid showing made for a much better tale.
The benefit, then, seemed mainly to play well and leave everyone with nothing to say about her. Well, she could manage that. Sitting before the pianoforte, she set her music on the stand, flexed her fingers, and began playing. “Mungo’s Delight” was a pretty piece, not particularly difficult, but she was only there not to make a mistake. She needed all the perfection she could get hold of.
Amelia-Rose played the country dance all the way through, careful not to speed up as she neared the end, and then set her hands back in her lap. The applause sounded sincere—and so did the whistle cutting through it. Startled, she turned to look.
Niall sat a seat away from her mother, a grin on his face as he put two fingers to his mouth and whistled again. Hurriedly she stood, curtsied, and headed for her chair, then had to return for her music again. Dash it all.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, taking her place between him and her mother.
He lifted a bouquet of white and pink roses and handed them to her. “Eloise told me where ye’d be. Since it sounded formal, I thought I’d best bring ye some posies. Ye play well, adae.”
The flowers were very pretty, and as his hand brushed hers, she felt … No. She felt annoyed. He was making a scene, and it included her. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, “but you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”
“Coll wanted to come,” he returned, his voice just loud enough that those directly around them could overhear. “I reckon he ate some Sassenach food, because he’s nae too well today. But he wanted me to tell ye that he’d be pleased and proud to escort ye and yer ma and da to the ball tomorrow, and for me to ask what time ye’d care for him to call on ye.”
Amelia-Rose wasn’t certain she believed a word of that, but it did sound plausible, and it gave him an excuse for being there that didn’t include one of them being infatuated with the other—which neither of them was. One couldn’t be infatuated after only four meetings. Five including this one, though of course she wasn’t keeping count. She looked at her mother. “Shall we say eight o’clock?” she suggested.
Victoria sent a tight-lipped smile past her in Niall’s direction. “Yes, that would be acceptable. Most persons would send over a note to inquire.”
“Coll said I should deliver the flowers in person,” he returned, plucking one of the rose petals from her bouquet and lifting it to his nose. “Roses for a rose.”
“Amelia-Rose,” Mrs. Baxter countered, her teeth clenched. “If you mean to remain here, Mr. MacTaggert, for heaven’s sake do stop whistling and making a scene.”
“How else is a man to let a lass know he reckons she’s talented?” he drawled, lifting an eyebrow and clearly untroubled by the censure.
Seeing her mother flummoxed was rather remarkable. “Applause is acceptable,” Victoria said tightly. “As is standing while applauding if it is something you truly admire. Anything else is gauche and barbaric.”
When Amelia-Rose caught sight of Niall’s profile, he was still smiling. “Stop it,” she breathed.
“I’m gauche and barbaric,” he returned in the same low tone she’d used. “Even so, by yer own rules, Sassenach, I outrank yer ma. If I didnae, I’ve nae doubt she would have tossed my posies on the floor and stomped on them. But I have the power the lot of ye gave me, and so she cannae.”
Her breath caught. “Your posies?” she pushed, ignoring the rest of his anarchy. He had brought her flowers. He’d done it. And not on anyone else’s behest.
His mouth twitched. “Coll’s posies,” he amended.
She didn’t believe him. The flowers had been his idea, and she imagined that bothering to track her down at a recital, of all things, had been his idea as well. It didn’t have to mean anything, of course; some flowers were a small-enough price to pay to keep his brother in her and her mother’s good graces.
But it did mean something to her. Or rather, she wanted it to mean something. What, she didn’t dare decipher. “Are you going to stay?” she asked under her breath.
“Are ye going up there again?”
“Yes. I’ll play again just before the end of the recital.”
He sank back on the narrow chair and crossed his ankles in front of him, long, lanky, and indescribably compelling. “Then I reckon I’ll stay. Coll likes music, ye ken.”
“Bagpipe music, yes? Not pianoforte music.”
“We’ve nae listened to much pianoforte music. Pipes have an old, mournful sound to ’em, even in a reel. The pianoforte is gentler, like a conversation and nae a lament. I like it.”
That was surprisingly thoughtful. “I’m impressed,” she whispered.
“Actually it made me want to dance with ye, but since ye were playing the tune, I reckoned that would be a poor idea.”
Amelia-Rose was more than half certain he was bamming her again, but it didn’t seem worth taking the risk of assuming he was jesting. “No one dances at a recital, no matter who is playing,” she cautioned, forcing herself to move past the image in her mind of her holding hands with Niall as they stepped through the country dance. Her fingers twitched, the image was so vivid. Stop it, she ordered herself.