The entrance hall had been stunning. Spotless checkered floor despite the crush of visitors, intricate plasterwork decorating the high ceiling, a gorgeous staircase curving up to the next level.
The current salon was no less grand. Towering sash windows draped with elegant jade curtains, striped silk wall hangings in a paler tone to match, furniture and moldings and cartouches that Nora could only describe as beautiful and extremely expensive.
Toward the rear of the otherwise empty dais sat a gorgeous, lacquered pianoforte the likes of which she had never seen. Although she hadn’t a single musical bone in her body, she itched to run her fingertips over the smooth keys, the delicate curves of the carved cypress housing.
“How many songs will they play?” she whispered to Lady Roundtree. “Is it always different?”
The baroness glanced over her shoulder to ensure they weren’t being watched before leaning over the arm of her wheeled chair to whisper back. “Twelve. It’s been the same set for years, and as you can see, the fashionable set will never tire of it.Weknow quality.”
Nora belatedly recalled herself. She was not the fashionable set, and the baroness was not her personal guide to Grenville musicales. If she could not keep her curiosity in check, she would not be attending another.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to be impertinent.”
Lady Roundtree hesitated, then opened a painted fan to hide her words from any onlookers. “You are correct to realize that any person in another’s employ should remain silent unless first addressed. However, as my companion, whenever we are in a situation where we are unlikely to be seen or overheard… I give you permission to speak freely.”
Nora blinked. “You what?”
“Use your fan,” Lady Roundtree hissed.
Nora unfurled her fan and positioned it just like the baroness. “You give me permission to speak freely?”
“Nothere, Winfield,” Lady Roundtree clarified. “At home, whenever we won’t be disturbed.”
Nora’s teeth clacked together as she immediately closed her mouth, but inside her mind was whirling. The baroness quite understandably would not wish to publicly fraternize with an employee, but the explicit request to be herself whilst ensconced in the privacy of the Roundtree town house…
On the one hand, it felt like yet another double life. But on the other hand, it felt likefreedom. Freedom to be herself, if only for a few hours each day.
Before she could ruminate more on this surprising turn of events, a footman swept aside the heavy velvet curtain and the first of three dark-haired Grenville siblings stepped out on the stage.
“Miss Camellia Grenville,” the baroness whispered behind her fan. “The only one of her sisters not destined to shame her family. The one with the violin is Miss Bryony Grenville. Once again, she didn’t bother to curl her hair for the occasion.”
Nora was no longer listening. Her pulse had skipped the moment Mr. Grenville emerged from the shadows, and she had not so much as blinked since. How was it possible that he grew more handsome every time she saw him?
His gleaming black boots looked spotless and shiny even from across the room. His formal knee breeches and the dark superfine of his evening coat contrasted brilliantly with the snowy white of an intricately tied neckcloth against a gold silk waistcoat. His dark, perfectly tousled hair looked soft and inviting, but his strong jaw was set at an angle to invite no disruption.
Nora could not tear her gaze from him. How he strode across the dais, how he was far from dwarfed by the enormous pianoforte, how he commanded every stuttering breath she took just from being in the same room. And when he began to play—
“That’s the first arrangement,” Lady Roundtree whispered from behind her fan. “I told you; there will be no surprises tonight. Wait until you hear Miss Grenville sing.”
When the youngest sister lifted her violin to her shoulder, Nora could feel the vibrations of the music beneath her seat, along the arms of her chair, inside her very bones.
But when the eldest opened her mouth to sing, the entire world fell away. Never had Nora heard a voice so pure, so rich and textured. If choirs of angels filled the heavens, they must sound exactly like Camellia Grenville. Each note transported the rapt audience out of their bodies and into the soaring melody itself.
And still Nora’s eyes were not on the incredible soprano or the impressive violinist, but on the devastatingly handsome gentleman whose fine fingers flew across the keys of the pianoforte, yet his eyes appeared lost somewhere far away.
The song ended and another began, even more haunting and arresting than the first.
Lady Roundtree and the rest of the breathless crowd were in raptures.
Nora’s forehead creased. The anguished concentration on Mr. Grenville’s face hinted he was building up to something far more powerful than a mere crescendo. As if this familiar arrangement he could no doubt play in his sleep was tonight a beast to be vanquished, a battle to be won.
When the song ended without incident, her lungs let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“Is it always like this?” murmured a male voice in the row behind her.
Nora’s shoulders relaxed. Apparently she was not the only interloper amongst this crowd of well-heeled regulars. The gentleman must have been just as swept away as she was.
“Always,” a low voice responded to him. “Although tonight is even better than—”
