She stood with such simplicity, a broad smile on her face, as though she had just given them a gift. Which she had. His ennui was blown away. Sophie had pierced into his depths. Depths he had ignored since feeling small moments of bright joy as a child—studying his collection of carefully chosen rocks, composing a tale of valor and adventure with himself as the hero, smelling his mother’s sweet lavender scent as she hugged him before bed. Eton had proved the end of those brilliant moments, until Sophie had excavated below his public school/London gentleman persona.
Frank knew not how to express this to her. Stepping up onto the dais, he put a hand on her waist with the lightest touch and whispered into her ear, “You are magnificent. Words cannot express how you have affected me.”
She looked up at his face, returned his grave look, and said, “I am glad the music reached you.”
“I am alive with awe,” he said.
Buck and Fanny joined him, the latter embracing her, and his moment alone with Sophie was ended. Stepping off the dais, he sat and stared ahead of him, holding his chin in his hand and drawing his index finger across his upper lip. His future no longer looked gray. It was brilliant. As long as his angel was in it.
~~*
He was vaguely aware that the Carstairs were enthusiastically consulting Sophie on the choice of music for their performance together. Arrangements were being made for a rehearsal the very next morning. Bella was exclaiming over Fanny’s piano, playing bits and pieces, laughing.
Frank supposed that musicians must be used to this feeling he was experiencing. But maybe not. For him, it was as much about Sophie as it was about the music.
When the Carstairs at last took their leave, he remained seated in the music room, knowing she would come back to him. Fanny and Buck had gone to the door with Sophie and the musical couple, and Frank hoped they would now consider their hosting duties done.
Apparently, they did, for only Sophie returned to the music room.
“Lord Trowbridge, you appear to be in a brown study. Is everything all right?” She sat down next to him and put a hand on his arm.
“Will you give me a private performance?” he found himself asking. “Will you play it again?”
“My lord, I am afraid I am quite spent. My arms are like jelly.”
He took her hands in his, studying first their backs, then turning them over to study her palms. There were calluses on the fingertips of her left hand. He brought the hand to his lips and kissed each fingertip and lastly her palm. “What priceless hands.” He looked into her curious face. “I feel we have been on an intimate journey together. You must call me Frank. May I have leave to call you Sophie?”
“If you like,” she said. “The music seems to have touched you deeply.”
“It was seeing and hearing you perform that touched me deeply, Sophie. That was a miraculous performance. I wish Mozart himself could have heard you play.”
She put a hand to his face, stroking his cheek. “I am very glad it affected you so deeply. I am no witty flirt. Music is my language.”
Her hand on his face was gentle, but it ignited him like fire. Turning his mouth into her palm, he kissed it and then brought it down to clasp with its mate between his own hands.
“May I see you tomorrow?” he asked.
“I am to be with Fanny’s modiste all afternoon. It seems I must have a wardrobe, whether I like it or not. Perhaps you could come to tea? If we have not yet returned, you may visit with Buck.”
“Hopefully, I will have a surprise for you.”
“That would be lovely.”
He took his leave regretfully, giving Sophie’s knuckles a fervent kiss. “Good night, my angel. Sleep well.”
{ 7 }
SOPHIE LAY IN BED THAT NIGHT, pleasantly exhausted and full of delicious wonder at the change in Frank. Tonight, she had believed the words he had said. She knew they were not empty flattery, but were spoken from a heart that had been touched. He was an entirely different man than she had supposed. Those elegant looks concealed a nature far more sensitive than she had suspected.
Wrapping her arms about her breast, she hugged to herself the sweetness she felt until her exhaustion claimed her and she fell asleep.
The following morning, Sophie slept late. She was awakened by her sister, who entered her room with a large bouquet of pink roses mixed with daisies, and a dazzling pink and purple orchid in a pot.
Sitting up in bed, she said, “Oh, how lovely they are!”
“I think this orchid is a very rare variety. I have never seen it before,” Fanny said. She placed both offerings safely on the mantel of the fireplace across from Sophie’s bed.
“Who are they from?” Sophie wondered. She reached for the cards her sister was holding out. Her heart pounded as she opened the first that had come with the roses.
I missed seeing you at the Feversham ball last evening. I hope you are well.
Your servant,
Everett Elliott
It took her a moment to recall the young madcap she had met in the park. It seemed as though the world must have rotated at least twice since that meeting.
“Are they from Gorgeous Frank?”
“No. They are from a young man I met in the park yesterday. He does not know I am lame, and says he missed me at the ball.”
The next envelope had an embossed family crest. She pulled it open with her thumb.
I have not words of my own, so I quote:
“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes, and starry skies;