“It wasn’t until after Bussaco in the autumn of 1810 that Balfour joined us.” Fletch added a third soldier to their ranks, grinning at Tavish.
“Lieutenant James Westover made captain and transferred to another company.” Tavish folded his arms across his chest. “I took his place.”
“Ah, Westover! I miss him.” Fletch gave a fond smile. “Capital fellow.”
“Crack shot, as well,” Ross added.
From there, the ladies asked enthusiastic questions, which Fletch and Ross readily answered. If anyone noticed that Tavish and Lady Isla remained generally silent, they didn’t remark on it.
For his part, Tavish ruthlessly avoided even looking at her. But he felt her in the room. A weight on his spirit. Or perhaps just a rising bit of self-consciousness.
The whole affair was rather bizarre, he decided. A clash of two worlds that he had always viewed as utterly separate: his relationship with Lady Isla Kinsey and his time serving as a soldier. It felt odd that Fletch and Ross should know her—not as his wife, but as the beautiful, wealthy lady that Fletch would likely marry.
Did she feel anything as his friends spoke? Did she wonder about all that was not said? The hunger and deprivation they suffered during the retreat to Ciudad Rodrigo, waiting for supplies to arrive. An event Fletch summed up as being “a bit unpleasant.” The terror of the Battle of Vitoria where their own dead had carpeted the battlefield. Horrifying bloodshed Ross described as “rather disheartening.”
If Isla saw between the lines to what was not said, she didn’t show it. Her expression remained polite, but Tavish thought he saw something occasionally flicker. A slight wince over their privations, perhaps. A faint lift of an eyebrow at Miss Crowley’s incessant questions.
The topic of the war with Napoleon continued through dinner.
However, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, Lady Milmouth declared the women would provide musical entertainment instead of dunning the gentlemen for more war stories.
Grayburn, of course, nodded his approval. As usual, His Grace was dressed as if he were spending an evening with the Prince Regent at Carlton House instead of with friends in the Scottish Highlands. The duke’s initial anger toward Tavish’s presence had been replaced with a determined indifference to simply pretend that he didn’t exist.
And so the company sat as Miss Forsyth played a pretty Bach minuet and then sang a pair of Italian arias with her sister to polite applause. Miss Crowley demurred to perform, insisting she was out of practice.
“Lady Isla, you must grace us next,” Fletch encouraged.
“Please.” Grayburn motioned toward the piano with a languid hand. “Your playing is always welcome.”
Tavish resisted a frown. He hadn’t known Isla played. If she had mentioned it, he couldn’t recall. But, naturally, the daughter of the Duke of Grayburn would have been tutored in music. Such things were expected of young ladies.
“Hear, hear, Lady Isla. Your abilities at the keyboard must be celebrated,” Fletch said before turning to Tavish and Ross. “Her ladyship is a fair angel when she plays. Her melodies transport me to heaven.”
Something ugly twisted in Tavish’s gut. Fletch knew this part of her. He had heard her play before—and more than once, by the sound of it.
While Tavish . . . hadn’t even known.
Isla blushed. “You give me too much credit, Colonel Archer.”
“Play for us, Lady Isla, and let the company judge for themselves.”
With some reluctance, Isla sat at the pianoforte, sorting through music before settling on a concerto by Herr Beethoven.
What followed was fifteen minutes of astonishing musical virtuosity. Her fingers flew across the keyboard with ease, notes ringing soft and then loud, dynamics coaxing emotion from the instrument.
Tavish was, indeed, transported to heaven.
It was the oddest feeling—a deep sense of admiration and astonishment at her skill and mastery. But even more acute, a pang of loss. That this brilliant talent had been there all along—Isla had to have begun learning at a young age—and Tavish simply . . . hadn’t known.
But . . . why would he? Isla had probably practiced every day right after being drilled on French verbs and beforeplein airedrawing lessons. The study as natural a part of her life as eating and sleeping. It likely hadn’t occurred to her to mention it to a husband who had never seen her in that sphere. They had only ever met alone, isolated from the world and society.
How many other things had he not known about her?
Isla finished to enthusiastic applause, her smile radiant. The same smile he once assumed she bestowed on him alone.
Even in that he had been mistaken.
She did not look his way as she returned to her seat. Not even a flicker of a glance.
