Sonata for a Scoundrel by Lawson Anthea

Author:Lawson, Anthea [Lawson, Anthea]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: historical romance, music, regency romance, classical music, women composers, paganini
Publisher: Fiddlehead Press
Published: 2013-11-12T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Cher ami!” The Marquise le Vayer, a petite lady wearing sapphires, kissed Darien Reynard’s cheeks and drew him forward, leaving Clara and Nicholas to trail behind him into her well-appointed salon. “How splendid that you grace us with your presence again. Come, come, introduce your companions. Is this the composer I have heard so much of?” The marquise sent Nicholas a significant glance, one dark brow arched.

Once again, Clara was invisible. She stifled her stab of irritation. Their hostess had not meant to slight her, and to his credit, Darien had become scrupulous about presenting her.

Behind the marquise, the room was a bright swirl of faces and movement. The sound of a piano drifted through the conversation, playing a piece Clara did not recognize. She dipped a curtsey to the marquise as Darien introduced first herself, then Nicholas.

“Enchanteé.” The marquise’s bright eyes lit on Nicholas again. “A new composer among us. There are many people here you must meet, though it is a pity that wretch Berlioz is off in Italy.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “He has deserted us.”

“Yes, winning the Prix de Rome must be a severe hardship,” Darien said dryly.

“For us! Believe me, that man will be quite famous some day. Well, perhaps his travels will inspire him.” She smiled at Nicholas. “As I hope your travels have inspired you. Come with me. Tell me all about yourself, and I will make all the introductions.”

“I really… That is…” A touch of panic in his blue eyes, Nicholas glanced at Clara.

She gave a half shrug. What could she do? Whisper in his ear about the details of composing as he circulated the room? He would have to fend for himself.

“You English.” The marquise slipped her arm through Nicholas’s. “Don’t worry, I have some fine cognac. We will have you comfortable in no time.”

“Go,” Darien said. “You’re in excellent hands. I’ll find you when it’s time to play.”

Clara pressed her lips together and watched as the marquise led her brother away.

“Don’t look so anxious,” Darien said in a low voice. “Everyone here is perfectly friendly. The marquise hires burly footmen, too—a helpful reminder for those inclined to misbehave. Now, let’s go hear the music.”

The marquise’s townhouse was divided into a series of rooms. Darien led her through the first, and for once he was not accosted at every turn. Of course he was recognized, greeted—but a certain awestruck quality was missing from the assembly. Clara guessed he found it refreshing. Though he was always gracious, even after a long day’s travel, she knew the constant press of fame wore on him. The deepening of the crease beside his mouth, his eyes narrowing slightly as he dealt with yet another gushing female. Clara had seen it often enough.

But tonight he looked relaxed and at ease; and far too handsome.

She glanced about, hoping for distraction. It would not do for her to spend the evening uselessly sighing over Darien Reynard. Luckily, distraction was simple enough to find in the marquise’s salon.

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