“You’re here,” Lucasta said stupidly. The breath left her body. She wasn’t sure if the sensation rushing through her was agony or joy.
He nodded. He looked thrillingly handsome in a formal suit of deep red linen. The cut was severe in its simplicity, offsetting the elaborate silver embroidery and the thick silver buttons onhis coat, waistcoat, and the cuffs of his breeches. His stockings were bright white. A fall of blonde lace at his throat replaced a cravat, and he wore a small white powdered wig. No other man in London could wear such a dandified ensemble and look so elegant and commanding in it.
She’d missed what he’d said, too busy staring at him. She’d been struck senseless yesterday when he showed up in Judith’s drawing room, had fallen into his arms and his kisses. She felt like doing the same again.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Judith wishes to perform with you.” He reached behind him and pulled his sister forward. “She wants to play ‘The Bells of Aberdovey,’ as you practiced, if you will sing.”
Judith wore a simple but elegant gown of silver satin, and her lightly powdered hair was pinned in an elaborate coiffure. The feathers in her headpiece framed a face wearing a tremulous smile.
“I understand if it’s too late to make such a request,” she said shyly. “But I would not let Jem rest until he asked you.”
“But—to perform—” Lucasta looked at Jem in bewilderment. “There are so many people here.”
“I want to support the foundlings,” Judith said stubbornly. “And Eliza did very well, didn’t she?”
Lucasta took a deep breath and met Jem’s eyes squarely. “I would be deeply honored if you would play, Judith,” she said, pressing back the tremor in her voice. She would not weep again tonight; she wouldnot. “And I would be even more honored to sing for you.”
Judith smiled a beatific, rather knowing smile and allowed Jem to lead her to the small spinet that had been set up in the gallery for the occasion. The foundlings on the benches jostled each other, their eyes round as shillings, muttering about the fancy lord and his very fancy companion.
Lucasta heard not a single snigger or exclamation. This lot were accustomed to disease, wounds, scars, and challenges; it was the rare body, in their world, that was hale and whole. Judith in her blindness was immediately one of them. It was her dress causing the marvel. Several girls whispered appreciative comments about her gown as Judith seated herself at the instrument.
“Hey now, is that his wife then?” Hester exclaimed. “And here we thought he was danglin’ after you, miss!”
“That is his sister, Hester,” Lucasta shushed her. “Mind you address her as Lady Judith, as she is the daughter of a marquess.”
“Ooooh.” Hester looked appropriately impressed. “And ’e’s still fixin’ to marry you, then, ain’t ’e?”
Lucasta stepped to the instrument and took Judith’s hand. It was small and cold. “I am so very glad you are here.”
Judith’s smile grew enormous. “I knew your concert would be a success if you would sing, Lucasta. And I told Jem I could make you.”
Jem bowed and withdrew to whisper a word in the ear of the governor who was announcing. After some throat clearing, the other man settled the audience with an introduction. “Performing on the spinet, Lady Judith Falstead, sister to one of the members of our governing board and daughter of the new Marquess of Arendale,” he said pompously. “And performing ‘The Bells of Aberdovey,’ the organizer of tonight’s concert, Miss Lucasta Lithwick.”
Judith, with the serenity and concentration of a professional, flexed her fingers and began to play. And Lucasta, her heart overflowing with joy and gratitude, sang.
She couldn’t begin to comprehend Jem’s motives, but she didn’t need to. She let the music lift and carry her. Judith playedwith ease, from memory, and Lucasta poured her heart into her voice.
It lifted into the great room, winding around the pillars of the first-floor gallery, trilling along the cornices outlining the ceiling, resounding off the polished wooden panels and arched windows. It wasn’t a song that required gusto, but Lucasta gave it anyway. It felt so good to sing, to fill a room with her voice, to be a part of the music. She had found herself earlier in a moment of complete happiness; this was profounder, more perfect.
But Jem’s gift wasn’t complete. After their song, Judith remained seated at the spinet, flexing her fingers once more, and Jem stepped forward, joining Lucasta at the balcony. She gazed at him with questioning eyes.
“Judith had one more request,” he said. His eyes on her, filled with amber lights, made her feel as if the music still poured through her, a current of liquid gold. “She asked if we would sing a duet.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “Demanded, actually.”
“Performing ‘The True Lover’s Farewell,’” said the announcer in a wondering tone, “one of our governors, the new Lord Payne, and Miss Lithwick.”
“But you—these people,” Lucasta tried telling him. “All watching. What you feared.”
She didn’t understand. He didn’t want eyes on his family, but he had let Judith play. And now he was going to sing. With her.
He held out his hand. “Some things,” he said simply, “are worse than gossip.”
She grasped his fingers, warm and firm and strong, and the music inside her came to life. The sound of this throaty, rich baritone swirled through her to her very toes as Jem began the duet they had sang at Rose Hollow.
“Fare thee well, my own true love, and fare thee well for a while?—”
There was no more thought, only music. And each note of the melody, each chord from the instrument drew them together, binding them with a tether invisible to the eye. They were tuned to the same pitch, Lucasta thought hazily, as far as thought was allowed her. They vibrated at the same frequency. They were a perfect harmonic unit.
