She shrugged, forcing a half-smile. One of those flame-colored curls fell forward, drawing Peter’s attention to her expansive décolletage. “Yes. Perhaps. No.”
Her ambiguous response reminded him why he’d never approached her before. It wasn’t polite to sit when a lady remained standing in his presence, but the usual rules didn’t apply here, did they?
He lowered himself, thinking to experiment with a particular run that had been playing through his mind. He pressed his fingers onto the strings, sliding them down, a motion that felt as familiar to him as walking.
And then Lady Starling sighed.
A melodic sigh that slid from a high ‘D’ to a low ‘D’, spanning a perfect octave. It sent a warmth down his spine and had him staring at her again, noticing the curve of her neck, feminine and fragile. And the delicate slope of her shoulders.
“A stroll through the gardens then?” Likely, she’d refuse him again.
He rubbed a hand beneath his cravat and then rolled his shoulders. Damned hot in here. Halfway through the Season, one couldn’t escape the heat in even the most spectacular of Mayfair ballrooms. Especially after it had accommodated a few hundred sweating, dancing humans for several hours. Add to that the flames from all the candles…
He’d need to pack Rosa up first.
Lady Starling sent him a suspicious sideways glance. “Wouldn’t you prefer to ask one of the debutantes? I’m not fooled by your musical obsession, Mister Spencer. You’re one of Ravensdale’s sons and sought after as much as any titled gentleman.”
Peter could only laugh at that. He was the third son of an earl—granted, an incredibly wealthy earl, ensuring that he would never lack funds. But his estate, Millcot Lodge in Essex, was a modest one, and he would never hold a title.
Which was perfectly fine with him, as he was rather fond of his father and two older brothers—even if Stone had the most annoying habit of bruising his arm with the occasional brotherly punch.
“I’m not interested in strolling with a Mayfair maiden. I’m interested in strolling withyou.” Because she had no marriage-minded mama who’d be watching his every move with her daughter. It wouldn’t be significant for him to be spotted alone with a widow.
But more than that. He wasinterestedin her. He had been for some time now.
“Very well.” It wasn’t a resoundingly enthusiastic response, but he doubted the lady was ever resoundingly enthusiastic for much of anything.
“Allow me a moment to put Rosa away.” Carefully setting his cello to the side, he opened the large leather case that had been custom-built to protect her for transport.
“You named it?” The question, like everything else she had said to this point, came out in mocking tones. He knew it was a part of her armor, so it didn’t bother him.
“She,” Peter corrected her. “She’s more than a possession. She’s my life. The least she deserves is a name, don’t you think?”
Lady Starling’s throat moved, as though his answer was difficult to swallow. “But it, pardon me,she, is replaceable. She’s an inanimate object—wood, metal, glue.”
Peter snapped the metal closures into place and stroked a hand along the leather. “But for now, she owns my heart.” It was the only way he could explain how he felt about the instrument. He’d owned several others before Rosa and cared equally for each and every one of them. But for today, Rosa was the one that brought his music to life.
He moved around to the opening of the dais, vaguely aware that Lady Starling drifted in the same direction to meet him.
“Shall I send for your wrap?” The evening was warm, but her gown might leave her catching a chill. By no means current on ladies’ fashion, Peter would nonetheless wager a year’s allowance that the plunging bodice of her garment challenged societal boundaries. The brilliant forest-green silk, almost identical to the color of her eyes, cinched in at her waist. The off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves draped lazily into the crooks of her elbows, where long satin gloves ended.
“I’m fine.” Her answer belied her expression. She was far from fine.
Peter winged an arm. “Shall we, then?”
* * *
Miranda hatedthe relief that came with tucking her hand on Peter Spencer’s arm.
When had she become this pathetic creature? A person who found herself envying an inanimate object? Because seeing this gentleman lovingly secure the instrument in its velvet-lined case had all but taunted her current state of aloneness.
Pathetic indeed.
She had becomethat woman.
Beholden to no one, she did not conform to society’s dictates. She acknowledged her needs and pursued avenues for fulfillment. She would not apologize for who she was.
And, because of her gender, she would forever pay the price.
