As she settled herself gracefully on the bench before the piano, Ian noted with amusement that Margaret looked panic stricken and seemed to be trying to send her daughter discreet warning signals. What stunt is she trying to pull now, I wonder?
All thoughts ceased as she struck a haunting melody on the keys and began to sing. Ian had to agree with her mother that Angelica’s voice was not at all the light trilling or the ethereal whisper that one came to expect from accomplished singers of the petticoat line. But Angelica’s singing was not unpleasant. Instead her voice was rich, full bodied, and robust, like the finest burgundy.
The song was not the typical vapid nonsense smiled upon by society, but rather a song of a passionate woman, enraged and despairing of being seen for who she was. The piece was unlike anything he’d ever heard. She delivered the emotional dialogue of the lyrics with the drama one would usually find on Drury Lane, not in a modest music room.
When the song ended, Angelica turned from the instrument and fixed him with that challenging stare he had grown to love. Her chin lifted another fraction. “Did you enjoy the song, Your Grace?”
Ian cast an amused glance at Lady Margaret, who was fumbling for her smelling salts. He stood up, clapping heartily. “Bravo! That was the most captivating performance I have heard in ages.”
Angelica’s onyx eyes narrowed in fury. Apparently she’d expected him to be scandalized. “Would you like to hear another?”
“By all means, Miss Winthrop,” he said with a satisfied smile.
“Perhaps Your Grace would like to hear some Beethoven instead?” Jacob asked, casting worried looks at his wife’s pale face.
“I would love to play a Beethoven piece, Papa,” she replied, ignoring Ian.
Ian sighed, expecting to hear the “Moonlight Sonata” or something else he’d heard dozens of times, but he was shocked when Angelica plunged into Beethoven’s Appassionata. His surprise was not because the sonata was one of the most emotional and complex pieces ever to reach his ears, but because he doubted a slip of a girl could produce the intricate melodies through the work’s entire twenty-five minutes. Only concert pianists attempted this piece. Perhaps she meant to fail at the endeavor to deter him.
She played the sonata perfectly and with such a jaunty flair that he couldn’t keep an admiring chuckle from escaping. Margaret and Jacob’s eyes nearly bulged out of their heads. From the stunned expressions on her parents’ faces, Ian presumed they had never heard her perform this one. It seemed he would be wedding an incredibly talented woman.
***
Angelica wanted to scream in fury at the thunderous applause that the duke and her parents heaped upon her. A gentleman is always displeased when a lady shows herself to be more intelligent or talented than he is. Angelica noted the naked admiration in Burnrath’s eyes. Apparently Mother’s commandments were wrong yet again. In fact, everything she did to try to make him dislike her seemed to accomplish just the opposite.
She didn’t know how much longer she could withstand those lazy smiles he bestowed on her that made her heart turn over in her chest. Or pretend indifference to his kisses that left her feeling breathless. If his seduction continued, she would throw her freedom to the wind before long and joyfully become his duchess.
“Where would you like me to escort you tomorrow?” Burnrath asked as they strolled through the garden.
Angelica suppressed a tremor of anticipation for his impending kisses. Instead, she forced her attention on a wicked idea that niggled at her mind. Last week, she’d enjoyed seeing the opera and being swept under the music’s spell. And though she could tell he didn’t completely enjoy some of the balls he had escorted her to, the duke didn’t appear to despise them. There had to be something she could make him do that he would hate.
“Tomorrow is Wednesday. Could we go to Almack’s?” she asked, trying to imbue her tone with innocent enthusiasm.
Unless they were desperate for a young bride, the older, more urbane set would rather die than step into that dull establishment with its tepid tea, paltry gambling stakes, and carnivorous matchmaking mamas.
Burnrath raised his eyes heavenward as he tried—and failed—to mask his look of dismay. “Very well. If that is what you wish. I will pick you up at nine o’clock.”
She almost laughed at his ire, until she realized that she’d be punishing herself along with him. She hated Almack’s. The “fashionable” assembly hall had to be the stiffest, blandest, and most repressive place in the world. But, going there would be worth it to deter his suit.
She kicked a pebble on the ground and changed the subject. “How old are you?”
He gave her an odd look, almost as if the question embarrassed him. “Are you certain you wish to know?”
“Of course.” Angelica frowned in confusion at his reluctance. She knew he was older than she was, but he couldn’t be much more than thirty.