“Iris!” Sarah hissed.
“Errrrgh,” Iris growled. She’d missed her entrance again. Although really, who was Sarah to complain? She’d skipped two entire pages in the second movement.
Iris located the correct spot in the score and leapt back in, relieved to note that they were nearing the end of the concerto. All she had to do was play her final notes, curtsy as if she meant it, and attempt to smile through the strained applause.
Then she could plead a headache and go home and shut her door and read a book and ignore Daisy and pretend that she wasn’t going to have to do it all over again next year.
Unless, of course, she got married.
It was the only escape. Every unmarried Smythe-Smith (of the female variety) had to play in the quartet when an opening at her chosen instrument arose, and she stayed there until she walked down a church aisle and claimed her groom.
Only one cousin had managed to marry before she was forced onto the stage. It had been a spectacular convergence of luck and cunning. Frederica Smythe-Smith, now Frederica Plum, had been trained on the violin, just like her older sister Eleanor.
But Eleanor had not “taken,” in the words of Iris’s mother. In fact, Eleanor had played in the quartet a record seven years before falling head over heels for a kindly curate who had the amazing good sense to love her with equal abandon. Iris rather liked Eleanor, even if she did fancy herself an accomplished musician. (She was not.)
As for Frederica . . . Eleanor’s delayed success on the marriage mart meant that the violinist’s chair was filled when her younger sister made her debut. And if Frederica just happened to make certain that she found a husband with all possible haste . . .
It was the stuff of legend. To Iris, at least.
Frederica now lived in the south of India, which Iris suspected was somehow related to her orchestral escape. No one in the family had seen her for years, although every now and then a letter found its way to London, bearing news of heat and spice and the occasional elephant.
Iris hated hot weather, and she wasn’t particularly fond of spicy food, but as she sat in her cousins’ ballroom, trying to pretend that fifty people weren’t watching her make a fool of herself, she couldn’t help but think that India sounded rather pleasant.
She had no opinion one way or the other on the elephants.
Maybe she could find herself a husband this year. Truth be told, she hadn’t really put in much of an effort the two years she’d been out. But it was so hard to make an effort when she was—and there was no denying it—so unnoticeable.
Except—she looked up, then immediately looked down—by that strange man in the fifth row. Why was he watching her?
It made no sense. And Iris hated—even more than she hated making a fool of herself—things that made no sense.
Chapter Two
IT WAS CLEAR to Richard that Iris Smythe-Smith planned to flee the concert the moment she was able. She wasn’t obvious about it, but he’d been watching her for what seemed like an hour; by this point, he was practically an expert on the expressions and mannerisms of the reluctant cellist.
He was going to have to act quickly.
“Introduce us,” Richard said to Winston, discreetly motioning toward her with his head.
“Really?”
Richard gave a curt nod.
Winston shrugged, obviously surprised by his friend’s interest in the colorless Miss Iris Smythe-Smith. But if he was curious, he did not show it past his initial query. Instead he maneuvered through the crowd in his usual smooth manner. The woman in question might have been standing awkwardly by the door, but her eyes were sharp, taking in the room, its inhabitants, and the interactions thereof.
She was timing her escape. Richard was sure of it.
But she was to be thwarted. Winston came to a halt in front of her before she could make her move. “Miss Smythe-Smith,” he said, everything good cheer and amiability. “What a delight to see you again.”
She bobbed a suspicious curtsy. Clearly she did not have the sort of acquaintance with Winston as to warrant such a warm greeting. “Mr. Bevelstoke,” she murmured.
“May I introduce my good friend, Sir Richard Kenworthy?”
Richard bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
“And you.”
Her eyes were just as light as he’d imagined, although with only the candlelight to illuminate her face, he could not discern their precise color. Gray, perhaps, or blue, framed by eyelashes so fair they might have been invisible if not for their astonishing length.
“My sister sends her regrets,” Winston said.
“Yes, she usually attends, doesn’t she?” Miss Smythe-Smith murmured with the merest hint of a smile. “She’s very kind.”
“Oh, I don’t know that kindness has anything to do with it,” Winston said genially.
Miss Smythe-Smith raised a pale brow and fixed a stare on Winston. “I rather think kindness has everything to do with it.”
Richard was inclined to agree. He could not imagine why else Winston’s sister would subject herself to such a performance more than once. And he rather admired Miss Smythe-Smith’s acuity on the matter.
“She sent me in her stead,” Winston went on. “She said it would not do for our family to be unrepresented this year.” He glanced over at Richard. “She was most firm about it.”
“Please do offer her my gratitude,” Miss Smythe-Smith said. “If you’ll excuse me, though, I must—”
“May I ask you a question?” Richard interrupted.
She froze, having already begun to twist toward the door. She looked at him with some surprise. So did Winston.
“Of course you may,” she murmured, her eyes not nearly as placid as her tone. She was a gently bred young lady and he a baronet. She could offer no other response, and they both knew it.
“How long have you played the cello?” he blurted out. It was the first question that came to mind, and it was only after it had left his lips that he realized it was rather rude. She knew the quartet was terrible, and she knew that he must feel the same way. To inquire about her training was nothing but cruel. But he’d been under pressure. He couldn’t let her leave. Not without some conversation, at least.
“I—” She stammered for a moment, and Richard felt himself floundering inside. He hadn’t meant to—Oh, bloody hell.
“It was a lovely performance,” Winston said, looking as if he’d like to kick him.
Richard spoke quickly, eager to rehabilitate himself in her eyes. “What I meant was that you seemed somewhat more proficient than your cousins.”
She blinked several times. Bloody hell, now he’d gone and insulted her cousins, but he supposed better them than her.
He plowed on. “I was seated near to your side of the room, and occasionally I could hear the cello apart from the other instruments.”
“I see,” she said slowly, and perhaps somewhat warily. She did not know what to make of his interest, that much was clear.
“You’re quite skilled,” he said.
Winston looked at him in disbelief. Richard could well imagine why. It hadn’t been easy to discern the notes of the cello through the din, and to the untrained ear, Iris must have seemed just as dreadful as the rest. For Richard to say otherwise must seem the worst sort of false flattery.
Except that Miss Smythe-Smith knew that she was a better musician than her cousins. He’d seen it in her eyes as she reacted to his statement. “We have all studied since we were quite young,” she said.
“Of course,” he replied. Of course that would be what she’d say. She wasn’t about to insult her family in front of a stranger.
An awkward silence descended upon the trio, and Miss Smythe-Smith made that polite smile again, with the clear intention of excusing herself.
“The violinist is your sister?” Richard asked, before she could speak.
Winston shot him a curious look.
“One of them, yes,” she replied. “The bl
ond one.”
“Your younger sister?”
“By four years, yes,” she said, her voice sharpening. “This is her first season, although she did play in the quartet last year.”
“Speaking of that,” Winston put in, thankfully saving Richard from having to think up another exit-preventing question, “why was Lady Sarah seated at the pianoforte? I thought the quartet was for unmarried ladies only.”
“We lack a pianist,” she answered. “If Sarah had not stepped up, the concert would have been canceled.”
The obvious question hung in the air. Would that have been such a bad thing?
“It would have broken my mother’s heart,” Miss Smythe-Smith said, and it was impossible to tell just what emotion colored her voice. “And those of my aunts.”
“How very kind of her to lend her talents,” Richard said.
And then Miss Smythe-Smith said the most astonishing thing. She muttered, “She owed us.”
Richard started. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” she said, smiling brightly . . . and falsely.
“No, I must insist,” Richard said, intrigued. “You cannot make such a statement and leave it unclarified.”
Her eyes flitted to the left. Maybe she was making sure her family could not hear. Or maybe she was simply trying not to roll her eyes completely. “It is nothing, really. She did not play last year. She withdrew on the day of the performance.”
“Was the concert canceled?” Winston asked, brow furrowed as he tried to recall.
“No. Her sisters’ governess stepped in.”
“Oh, right,” Winston said with a nod. “I remember. Jolly good of her. Remarkable, really, that she knew the piece.”
“Was your cousin ill?” Richard inquired.
Miss Smythe-Smith opened her mouth to speak, and then at the last moment changed her mind about what she was going to say. Richard was sure of it.
“Yes,” she said simply. “She was quite ill. Now if you will excuse me, I’m afraid there is a matter I must attend to.”
She curtsied, they bowed, and she departed.
“What was that about?” Winston asked immediately.
“What?” Richard countered, feigning ignorance.
“You practically threw yourself in front of the door to prevent her from leaving.”
Richard shrugged. “I found her interesting.”
“Her?” Winston looked toward the door through which Miss Smythe-Smith had just exited. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Richard lied.
Winston turned to Richard, then back to the door, and then back to Richard again. “I must say, she’s not your usual type.”
“No,” Richard said, even though he’d never thought of his preferences in those terms. “No, she’s not.”
But then again, he’d never needed to find himself a wife. In two weeks, no less.
THE FOLLOWING DAY found Iris trapped in the drawing room with her mother and Daisy, waiting for the inevitable trickle of callers. They had to be at home for visitors, her mother insisted. People would want to congratulate them on their performance.
Her married sisters would stop by, Iris imagined, and most likely a few other ladies. The same ones who attended each year out of kindness. The rest would avoid the Smythe-Smith home—any of the Smythe-Smith homes—like the proverbial plague. The last thing anyone wanted to do was make polite conversation about an aural disaster.
It was rather as if the Dover cliffs crumbled into the sea, and everyone sat about drinking tea, saying, “Oh yes, ripping good show. Too bad about the vicar’s house, though.”
But it was early still, and they had not yet been graced by a visitor. Iris had brought down something to read, but Daisy was still aglow with delight and triumph.
“I thought we were splendid,” she announced.
Iris lifted her eyes from her book just long enough to say, “We weren’t splendid.”
“Perhaps you weren’t, hiding behind your cello, but I have never felt so alive and in tune with the music.”
Iris bit her lip. There were so very many ways she could respond. It was as if her younger sister was begging her to use every sarcastic word in her arsenal. But she held her tongue. The concert always left her feeling irritable, and no matter how annoying Daisy was—and she was, oh, she was—it wasn’t her fault that Iris was in such a bad mood. Well, not entirely.
“There were so many handsome gentlemen at the performance last night,” Daisy said. “Did you see, Mama?”
Iris rolled her eyes. Of course their mother had seen. It was her job to notice every eligible gentleman in the room. No, it was more than that. It was her vocation.
“Mr. St. Clair was there,” Daisy said. “He’s so very dashing with his queue.”
“He’ll never look twice at you,” Iris said.
“Don’t be unkind, Iris,” their mother scolded. But then she turned to Daisy. “But she’s right. And nor would we wish him to. He’s far too rakish for a proper young lady.”
“He was talking with Hyacinth Bridgerton,” Daisy pointed out.
Iris swung her glance over to her mother, eager—and, truth be told, amused—to see how she’d respond to that. Families didn’t get more popular or respectable than the Bridgertons, even if Hyacinth—the youngest—was known as something of a terror.
Mrs. Smythe-Smith did what she always did when she did not wish to reply. Her brows rose, her chin dipped, and she gave a disdainful sniff.
Conversation over. At least that particular thread.
“Winston Bevelstoke isn’t a rake,” Daisy said, tacking a bit to the right. “He was seated near the front.”
Iris snorted.
“He’s gorgeous!”
“I never said that he wasn’t,” Iris replied. “But he must be nearly thirty. And he was in the fifth row.”
That seemed to mystify their mother. “The fifth—”
“It’s certainly not the front,” Iris cut in. Blast it all, she hated when people got the little details wrong.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Daisy said. “It doesn’t matter where he was sitting. All that matters is that he was there.”
This was correct, but still, so clearly not the salient point. “Winston Bevelstoke would never be interested in a girl of seventeen,” Iris said.
“Why wouldn’t he be?” Daisy demanded. “I think you’re jealous.”
Iris rolled her eyes. “That is so far from the truth I can’t even begin to say.”
“He was watching me,” Daisy insisted. “That he is as yet unmarried speaks to his selectiveness. Perhaps he has simply been waiting for the perfect young lady to come along.”
Iris took a breath, quelling the retort tickling at her lips. “If you marry Winston Bevelstoke,” she said calmly, “I shall be the first to congratulate you.”
Daisy’s eyes narrowed. “She’s being sarcastic again, Mama.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Iris,” Maria Smythe-Smith said, never taking her eyes from her embroidery.
Iris scowled at her mother’s rote scolding.
“Who was that gentleman with Mr. Bevelstoke last night?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith asked. “The one with the dark hair.”
“He was talking to Iris,” Daisy said, “after the performance.”
Mrs. Smythe-Smith fixed a shrewd stare upon Iris. “I know.”
“His name is Sir Richard Kenworthy,” Iris said.
Her mother’s brows rose.
“I’m sure he was being polite,” Iris said.
“He was being polite for a very long time,” Daisy giggled.
Iris looked at her in disbelief. “We spoke for five minutes. If that.”
“It’s more time than most gentleman talk to you.”
“Daisy, don’t be unkind,” their mother said, “but I must agree. I do think it was more than five minutes.”
“It wasn’t,” Iris muttered.
Her mother did not hear her. Or more likely, chose to ignore. “We shall hav
e to find out more about him.”
Iris’s mouth opened into an indignant oval. Five minutes she’d spent in Sir Richard’s company, and her mother was already plotting the poor man’s demise.
“You’re not getting any younger,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said.
Daisy smirked.
“Fine,” Iris said. “I shall attempt to capture his interest for a full quarter of an hour next time. That ought to be enough to send for a special license.”
“Oh, do you think so?” Daisy asked. “That would be so romantic.”
Iris could only stare. Now Daisy missed the sarcasm?
“Anyone can be married in a church,” Daisy said. “But a special license is special.”
“Hence the name,” Iris muttered.
“They cost a terrific amount of money,” Daisy continued, “and they don’t give them out to just anybody.”
“Your sisters were all properly married in church,” their mother said, “and so shall you be.”
That put an end to the conversation for at least five seconds. Which was about how long Daisy could manage to sit in silence. “What are you reading?” she asked, craning her neck toward Iris.
“Pride and Prejudice,” Iris replied. She didn’t look up, but she did mark her spot with her finger. Just in case.
“Haven’t you read that before?”
“It’s a good book.”
“How can a book be good enough to read twice?”
Iris shrugged, which a less obtuse person would have interpreted as a signal that she did not wish to continue the conversation.
But not Daisy. “I’ve read it, too, you know,” she said.
“Have you?”
“Quite honestly, I didn’t think it was very good.”
At that, Iris finally raised her eyes. “I beg your pardon.”
“It’s very unrealistic,” Daisy opined. “Am I really expected to believe that Miss Elizabeth would refuse Mr. Darcy’s proposal of marriage?”
“Who is Miss Elizabeth?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith asked, her attention finally wrenched from her embroidery. She looked from daughter to daughter. “And for that matter, who is Mr. Darcy?”