“I haven’t fished since I was a boy.” He looked pleased at the prospect while popping berries into his mouth.
“I am sure you shall easily recall how to do it. You have a magnificent memory, after all,” Brilliance told him. “I am most impressed by how well you were playing Mr. Castern’s piece when I entered.”
To her amazement, Lord Hewitt’s expression darkened. Any hint of happiness disappeared, and he slammed the porcelain fruit bowl onto the piano.
With disbelief, she watched a few of the juicy red cherries “escape” as she fancied their quick movement. For it appeared as if they’d hopped over the rim of the shallow bowl before rolling across the smooth surface of the piano and falling to the rug below.
“It isn’thismusic,” Lord Hewitt hissed.
Was he teasing her?“I beg to differ, my lord. I have heard it many times, and that was the very same. I am certain you can compose something as good if you put your mind to it.”
She decided to pick up the cherries. Lady Twitchard would not be pleased to find stains on her carpet should someone stand on them. Nearly as bad as spilling a glass of burgundy wine on a cream-colored table linen. Brilliance had done that, too.
Crouching low to retrieve the wayward fruit, she almost missed his next words.
“Leave me in peace.”
“It won’t do to let these remain on the rug,” she began before realizing what he had said. Having quickly picked up the errant berries, she rose.
“I beg your pardon?” Brilliance asked, dropping them back into the bowl.
“I asked you to leave.” His tone was sharp. “I have music to practice.”
“What about fishing, or even a mouthful of breakfast?”
“Out,” he said, rudely lowering himself onto the stool and giving her his shoulder.
Cherries certainly affected him differently than an orange, which had put him in a good mood. She did not like the foul one that had come over him.
He was apparently jealous of Mr. Castern.
It seemed petty and beneath a man of honor, especially one with such talent. About to tell him that very thing, Brilliance restrained herself, albeit with difficulty. Instead, she left without another word, taking the bowl of cherries with her.
What’s more, she would try her hand at painting.Again!There was no point in dragging her skirts to the possibly muddy stream if Lord Hewitt was going to remain in the conservatory.
Fishing!What a pointlesswaste of time unless one intended to catch something substantial for one’s dinner. However, Vincent knew what was in the nearby waters that flowed through Alethia’s estate toward the River Cray — nothing but small dab. Maybe some trout if one was lucky.
Besides, he didn’t want to stand there tossing in a line and hook when he could be practicing.
For what?came the unkind voice in his head. Or for whom?
Regardless, he ran through the sonata again.Hissonata. One of his favorites, originally named for a young lady as beautiful and treacherous as King Arthur’s Guinevere.Lydia.Naturally, the scoundrel, Ambrose Castern, had changed the title.
Unexpectedly, Vincent made a mistake halfway through. Beginning again, he found himself looking down at the keys. That didn’t help. He made another mistake, hesitated, and then ground to a halt.
Lady Brilliance!
His normally sharp concentration was shattered. And it was the lady’s fault. What with her damned cherries! She obviously had sawdust between her ears.
Luckily, when he stormed into the pink salon, no one else was there. He poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee, which put him in an even worse mood. Then he had some hard toast, a piece of cold gristly bacon, and a rubbery sausage before giving up.
He ought to be a dutiful guest and join the fishing party. Instead, he wandered into the back garden, finding it blooming with ladies and their easels.
“Why are you looking like a thunder cloud?” his cousin asked him. From her vantage point on the terrace, Alethia was overseeing the others in lieu of painting. Vincent knew her to be quite skilled and not one to risk bruising her guests’ tender psyches.
“Because I am trapped at your party,” he shot back.
Alethia didn’t look the least upset, nor even insulted.
