He was torn. Conversation would divert the lady from her chaperone’s duties. But he would feel more self-conscious under his mother’s observant eye. She would notice, as he already had, that he’d been anticipating this rehearsal more than a glittering ton ball. “She seemed quite content with her embroidery the last time,” he said.
The duchess merely smiled.
Randolph silently conceded. One didn’t argue with that smile. Not after the age of seven or so, when the futility of it had sunk in.
Miss Sinclair and her mother arrived soon after, and Randolph felt an odd sort of shock when his singing partner entered. Of course he remembered her perfectly well—the bright hair, pretty face, and frankly delectable figure. But the impact of her presence was greater than the sum of those details. He felt as if the room had grown a little brighter, its outlines a bit sharper.
Mrs. Sinclair followed the duchess over to the sofa in the corner and sat down. Randolph led the younger woman over to the sheets of music laid out on the table between the windows. “I thought we should try the songs in the order we discussed,” Randolph said.
“To see how the whole program works,” she replied.
“And if we need to change the sequence.”
“So that the whole makes the perfect impression.”
Randolph nodded. They fell into this automatic harmony, he thought. Over music. If nothing else. He took up the sheets, went to sit at the pianoforte, and they began.
It was just as before. When they started to sing, they seemed to enter a different realm where all was in tune. Depending on the mood of the piece, they could be spritely, tossing harmonies back and forth like skilled lawn-tennis players; affecting, hovering together on a tremolo of tears; or searingly sensual, once again rousing Randolph to a pitch he’d never experienced before. He knew that singing was an intensely physical act—the control of the breath, the shaping of the notes, and the projection of sound. But he’d never been aware of it in this reciprocal way, with a partner who matched him at every turn. It set him afire.
The quiet conversation in the corner, the room, the city all dropped away. He lost himself in the depths of Verity Sinclair’s blue-green eyes, the movements of her lips, the sway of her torso. As the last refrain of the final song died away, he started to reach for her.
The sound of applause recalled him. The duchess was clapping enthusiastically, leading Mrs. Sinclair to join her. “Bravo!” declared the former. “You really are very talented, both of you.” She smiled at Randolph. “My artistic son.”
The pride in her eyes warmed him and brought him back down to earth. The descent was jarring, and a relief. He’d nearly thrown propriety right out the window. It was also an intense frustration. He rose and managed a humorous bow.
Verity put a hand on top of the pianoforte, afraid she might lose her balance. It was hard to breathe, even though she’d had no trouble while she was singing. With the music gone, she was dizzy with…aftereffects. She’d thought, there at the end, that Lord Randolph was going to pull her into his arms and indulge in the kiss that she’d now pictured a hundred times. She’d been more than ready, longing for his touch, until the burst of applause reminded her that a kiss was impossible.
“How nice to be able to make music like that,” said her mother.
Verity stared at her. Could she really not have noticed that her daughter had been practically ravished before her eyes? It seemed so. Mama looked…complacent, practically smug. She looked like a woman whose tedious job is nearly done. Ah, Verity thought. Mama saw these rehearsals as courtship and expected an offer momentarily. Followed by a post chaise home to Chester and resumption of her comfortable, provincial existence. Verity resolutely didn’t glance at Lord Randolph. She didn’t want her life signed, sealed, and wrapped up in cotton wool. She just wanted that kiss.
Refreshments arrived. The cakes were luscious, but Verity hardly noticed despite her weakness for sweets. She struggled to make light conversation when her mind was still elsewhere, until one of her mother’s remarks called it back.
“With your interest in female education, perhaps you’ve seen the works of Mary Wollstonecraft?” Mrs. Sinclair asked the duchess.
“I believe I’ve heard the name,” Lord Randolph’s mother replied.
“As have I,” he said. “A rather unusual woman, wasn’t she?”