A June Bride by Teresa DesJardien

Author:Teresa DesJardien [Teresa DesJardien]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Trad-Reg
Published: 2015-01-18T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

“I didn’t know you play,” Geoffrey said, leaning on his mother’s pianoforte.

Alessandra smiled up at him, still playing, her fingers moving in the correct patterns even as she spoke. “I enjoy playing the pianoforte.”

“Geoffrey sings well,” Lady Chenmarth announced from her seat next to Alessandra on the two-person bench. “But this deep voice of mine can only croak. I tell people I am singing the alto part, and most of them believe me. Shall we?”

Alessandra played and they all sang “The Rose That Blooms in Winter” and “Ye Brave Young Men” and several songs from Sunday Services.

“You do have a nice voice,” Alessandra said to Geoffrey, looking up at him as her fingers idly tinkled across the keys. He looked up from the sheet music he had been thumbing through and smiled at her.

“Thank you.”

Her heart skipped a beat, making her stare for a moment. Then she focused her eyes downward, on her fingers against the keys as she began to play again, something, she could not have said what later.

She had never had a smile affect her in such a way. Their interchange had been a simple enough thing, but perhaps it was the...the what?...the affection she had seen in his eyes. He had been genuinely pleased to be complimented by her.

There was something about this suddenly realized ability to please another that made her feel...powerful?...fortunate?...clever?...something. She had no word for it. But it had been momentarily heady.

Of a sudden, loud screeching sounds came from the kitchen below stairs. Completely composed, Lady Chenmarth rose at once and left the room.

“The cook. His usual afternoon tirade. Pay no attention. I assure you, I do not,” Geoffrey explained to Alessandra, moving to take the seat next to her that his mother had just vacated. “You play very well. Shall we play together?” he suggested.

She moved over a little, that their legs would not touch, not even the fabric. “You play also?” she asked even as she mentally scolded herself. What was she doing, behaving so missishly? Even if this man was not in truth a husband to her, he was a cousin. She need not blush and stammer and act a fool just because she found herself unexpectedly alone with him, just because he gave her a smile. She need not let her mind wander over and over the very real fact that they were ever so much more dangerously alone in their bedchamber, in their nightclothes, in their bed.

Their touchless, loveless bed, she quickly amended, her spine stiffening, her fingers forgetting to play for a moment.

“I play a little. I am very poor at it. Mama made me take lessons, but for some reason the music masters always kept quitting,” he answered, grinning at her. This was a laughing smile, a public smile. It did not affect her the way the other had, except to make her put aside her tumbling thoughts and ask laughingly, “Were you very terrible to them, poor fellows?”

“Awful. Here, let us play this,” he said.

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