Page 20 of A Symphony for the Earl

“That is a situation easily remedied.” Lord Seldon reassured her.

She cringed, thinking back to her home in Barbados. She was an awkward fourteen-year-old, and her mother had tried to instruct her, but all attempts failed miserably. It seemed she was cursed with two left feet. Dancing should be a simple thing; yet the harder she worked, the worse her performance. Unaccustomed to failure, Fiona grew to dread the dancing sessions. After a week of embarrassing stumbles and mistakes, she flatly refused to continue.

A year later, Orla Rafferty passed away, and there was no reason to dance again. And after moving to Dublin, her studies focused on intensive piano instruction, leaving little time for social events.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Lady Amelia agreed. “Valentina and Octavia have an excellent dancing master. It should be no trouble to—”

“There is no need to call someone to the house. I shall teach Miss Rafferty.” Everyone looked surprised, but the earl’s expression was bland.

“We can begin tomorrow; my schedule is clear in the afternoon. I assume dancing is your only problem in attending a ball?”

Fiona nodded, still red with embarrassment. Lord Seldon would teach her to dance? Her heart skipped a beat. Several beats, in fact. He was substantial, very masculine, and handsome to the point of absurdity.

“I will warn you, my lord, I am a lost cause. If it’s not absolutely—”

“It is necessary, Miss Rafferty. Would sometime before supper be acceptable? Meanwhile, my mother and sister can answer any instruction you need regarding protocol or etiquette at such functions.”

“Richard!” Valentina objected. “As if Fiona needed instructions on how to act! But who shall play the piano while you practice?”

“I assume Miss Ernest’s fruitless efforts to encourage you and Octavia in the instrument indicate some skill in that area,” he answered, rising from the sofa.

“What time are we due at Lady Sefton’s, Mother?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Perfect. I think I’ll retire to the library for the next few hours. What are your dinner plans?”

“I’ve requested something light at six. We don’t plan to arrive exactly at the appointed hour. So gauche to be prompt, don’t you think, Miss Rafferty?” Lady Amelia waved airily, not waiting for agreement.

“Although it is the fashion to arrive after an event has started, Miss Rafferty, I beg you not to pattern yourself after my mother and my sister. They truly have no notion of time.”

“Don’t be tedious, Richard,” Lady Amelia admonished her son. “I was about to say I’m not sure of your plans tonight, but we would be delighted to have your company. Now I may change my mind.”

“It’s best to present a united front for Miss Rafferty’s first outing. Eight thirty will do for our arrival, and the carriage will call at eight. If you don’t mind, I shall forgo dinner and take a tray in the library.”

“Have you a headache?” Valentina asked with concern.

“No, but it’s been a full day. And Denys Spencer must take the blame for several bruised ribs at Jackson’s.”

Valentina blushed, lowering her eyes. Who might Denys Spencer be to have such an effect?

“Gentlemen and their fisticuffs.” Lady Amelia set down her teacup with a sigh. “I shall never understand it. Your father never boxed.”

“Perhaps he should have,” he said drily. “It would have been the least harmful of his pursuits.” Lady Amelia’s expression grew sad, and the earl bent to brush a gentle kiss on her cheek. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ve upset you.”

“No, dear, just the memories. I do wish you could forgive your father. He lacked your strength of character.”

“I am happy that you have done so.” He politely inclined his head and left the room.

Fiona wondered at the awkward silence in the room. What had been the earl’s relationship with his father? And why would Lady Amelia need to forgive her deceased husband?

“One day, Miss Rafferty, I will tell you a bit of our family history, but for now, perhaps you could play something diverting?”

“Yes, please play the piano for us again, Miss Fiona,” Octavia begged.

Valentina rose and rang the bell. “I am afraid you have another hour of lessons with Miss Ernest. French, perhaps?”

Octavia scowled. “I would rather draw.”