“You spoil me,” she says, holding the book to her chest.
“As is my right,” Father says.
Catherine walks back to the sitting area and bends down to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. Now take that upstairs and read until your mother comes out of her fugue state.” He grins up at her as she groans.
“Father,” she admonishes. He’s always making such terrible puns.
“Go.”
Catherine hugs the book once more to show her appreciationbefore heading out of the study. She ignores Mother’s curses and banging, forcing herself up the stairs with the promise of a good story.
She has her own library to finish unpacking in her new room, but she bypasses the boxes by her bookshelves, her freshly made four-poster bed with the new blue curtains, and her vanity.
The large picture window along the side of her room that looks out on Great Pulteney Street has a built-in window seat covered in a paisley fabric. It’s the perfect cozy place to hole up and forget that she only has such a luxurious room because her father couldn’t climb daily to the third floor to take the primary bedroom.
But as she starts to read about Sir Philip Harclay, she finds she can’t picture him the way she ought. She should be picturing a broody, stalwart young man, returning home from knightly adventures. Instead, he’s short, and fiery, and bears a striking resemblance to a certain lady dressed in breeches and a tunic.
Catherine slams the book shut, closing her eyes tight. She has to stop letting Lady Rosalie pervade her every thought. It’s not healthy. It’s not productive. And it’s not going to help her do anything but get more bothered. Hot and bothered and—
No. Lady Rosalie is her adversary, no matter how pretty, persuasive, cunning, and witty she may be.
Catherine keeps her eyes closed and forces herself to mentally go through her own upcoming performance. She’s decided to play the much less technical but far more lyrical Nocturne No. 14 in G Major by John Field. She’s hoping her musicality will win points with... well, with whomever she decides she’s trying to impress tomorrow.
Because like the hero in her new novel, the face that comes to mind when she imagines playing isn’t Mr. Dean’s. Instead,she keeps seeing a pair of icy gray-blue eyes beneath dark brows that are more expressive making a snide remark than most people manage when talking about love.
She had completely forgotten that Lady Rosalie had offered to teach her a dance. But the reminder came this morning on a beautifully embossed calling card. What was she thinking, knowingly walking into the Tisend home early, with no society set around them as a buffer? And what are her mother and father supposed to do while they practice? Chat idly about the rumor that nearly ruined Mother’s life?
Mother’s gripping so tightly to Father’s arm that Catherine’s worried she’ll cut off his circulation. Her own nails are digging into her arms through her gloves. But Father, cheerful as ever, knocks on the door, and there’s no going back.
The door to the massive Tisend townhouse opens before she can gather any composure and they’re quickly ushered into a cavernous foyer and relieved of their cloaks. Unlike their narrow townhouse, which is still half unpacked, with art everywhere while Mother dithers over placement, the Tisend foyer is immaculate. High columns ring the two-story space, with enormous ocean landscapes hanging on the walls. Catherine turns her head rapidly, trying to take them all in. The one of the ship being swallowed by waves is rather ominous.
The butler ushers them through a tall arch that opens onto an expansive ballroom. It looks almost like the dance hall at the Upper Rooms, but more lavish. Three chandeliers hang down from the ceiling, casting shimmering patterns over the assembled chairs, all wrapped in beautiful white linens. Twenty of them sit facing a raised dais with chairs for musicians and the largest pianoforte Catherine has ever seen. The whole scene issurrounded by the most beautiful flowers in blues, whites, and soft yellows.
She has to perform in this lush space. Has to impress here. Has to prove she and her mother are as worthy of regard as the Tisends. How can she possibly—how cantheypossibly—prove their worth when no level of perfect performance can make up for what they clearly lack in wealth and power?
“Got what she always wanted, didn’t she?” Catherine hears Mother murmur.
She turns, noticing the pallor of her mother’s face, while her father simply looks around, impressed. She tries to find words of comfort, despite the unease skittering up and down her own spine—
“You’re finally here.”
Catherine spins around and reflexively stands up taller as Lady Rosalie and Lady Tisend appear from behind the dais. Lady Tisend is dragging a short, dapper man with salt-and-pepper hair by the hand. Must be Lord Tisend. He has Lady Rosalie’s small, upturned nose.
Behind him, a slightly taller woman follows with an older gentleman, the two of them walking more sedately. The second woman has a soft smile and looks far more relaxed than either Lady Rosalie or Lady Tisend.
“Come, come, I’ve got our pianist set up on the smaller pianoforte at the back,” Lady Rosalie says, dipping in a curtsy to Catherine’s parents before grabbing Catherine by the hand.
“It’s nice to see you, Lady Tis—” Catherine manages, trying to curtsy while Lady Rosalie pulls her away.
Everyone laughs, even Mother, which is something. But she can’t focus on them, not when she’s trying not to trip over her own feet.
“Is there a fire?” she asks Lady Rosalie. She’s decidedly not focusing on the feeling of Lady Rosalie’s smaller hand in hers.
“We’ve only thirty minutes to learn this dance,” Lady Rosalie says simply, tugging Catherine around behind the dais, where, just as she said, there’s a small pianoforte and a pianist patiently waiting for them.
The man nods to her, wearing a powdered wig and dressed in a cream patterned silk waistcoat that looks like something out of a drawing of Versailles.
