Caught in a Cornish Scandal by Eleanor Webster (top novels of all time .txt) 📗

of the time, he had not looked at the stage. It was more fascinating to watch her in the glow of the candlelight. Her skin had flushed with excitement and, as she concentrated on the music, she bit her lip. He would like to take her to the opera again. Or the symphony. There were so many things to show her in London.

His fingers ran over the keys. The tune was pretty, but lacking in power. His mother would sometimes arrange for an orchestra to play at their home. He’d liked that. He would sit at the back of the room, forgotten by the musicians, and listen.

A solo is but one song. It is when instruments play together that there is magic.

That thought, those words, struck him anew. Almost, it seemed as though he heard them from a source external to him. It felt as it did when he looked up at the stars and imagined Socrates, Themistocles or Epictetus viewing a similar skyscape. He felt both overwhelmed and enlightened.

He had feared love. He had lost himself in his love for Miss Whistler. And with his father he had felt a need to be different, to pretend. Indeed, it had appeared to him that pretence was a prerequisite for love.

Except perhaps that was not true.

Plato said that every heart sings a song, incomplete until another heart whispers back.

Sam had never expected to hear that whisper. Indeed, much as he respected many aspects of Plato’s work, he had thought him misguided in this.

Very gently, he tapped on a key, listening to its pure note and realised that maybe, perhaps, if he was lucky, life need not be a solo enterprise.

Millie woke up the next day with the music still pulsing through her. For one evening, she’d allowed herself to people her world with happy fantasies. Everything—her gown, the opera, the man, the huge chandeliers heavy with candles—had added to that feeling. Even now she could picture his dark hair, mesmeric eyes, strong jaw and chiselled cheeks. It had been wonderful. The memory would warm her during Cornwall’s winter nights.

But she could no longer let herself indulge in foolish thoughts. She was Cinderella and the midnight hour had struck. Sam had given them a wonderful night. They had a bond. People who survived peril formed a connection. But the danger had passed. They would write occasional notes and send Christmas cards. A bond did not equal a future.

Millie spent the day either roaming restlessly about the house or sitting staring somewhat blankly at the wall. Lady Wyburn and Lil had gone shopping while Frances, Marta and the nursemaid went for a walk. Both groups had asked her to come, but she found that she did not have the energy. Instead, she sat listlessly in the sitting room that she shared with Lil. She started a letter to her mother but soon found herself staring into space, the letter incomplete. After numerous false starts, she tossed the crumpled balls into the basket. She’d tried to read, but found herself rereading the same line over and over with no memory of its content. She attempted her needlepoint, but tossed it aside in a tangle of silk.

So instead, she stared into the flickering flames. At some point she must have fallen asleep, as a tap at the door jolted her awake.

‘Mr Garrett is here, miss,’ Merryweather said.

‘His sister and aunt are out, I’m afraid.’ Her voice sounding rather squeaky, which made her flush.

‘I mentioned that Lady Wyburn, Mrs Ludlow and Miss Lillian were out, miss, but he stated rather emphatically that he wished to see you.’ Merryweather spoke lugubriously. His doleful tone was likely not personal. The man could make the cheeriest greeting melancholy.

‘Well...um...send him up.’

‘Yes, miss. Do you wish any refreshment?’

‘No, I do not think so.’ She could not spend any more time with Sam than was necessary. Nor could she indulge in any more intimate chats or shared confidences. It was confusing. It muddled her emotions. It was playing with fire and was not sensible.

Indeed, likely he merely wished to talk to her about Frances or perhaps he had some further information about Lord Harwood. She straightened, composing herself and trying to assume a businesslike expression.

Just then, Sam strode into her small sitting room as Merryweather bowed his way out. The room felt instantly smaller. And Sam seemed taller. And broader. His eyes were more piercing and his jaw and cheekbones more angular.

There was a brisk energy about him and a determination.

‘Sam? What is it?’

‘Millie, I—We need to talk,’ he said.

She startled at the urgency in his tone. ‘About Frances? Or the investigation? Has something happened? They are not releasing Mrs Ludlow or Jason, surely?’

‘No, not about Frances or the Ludlows.’ He threw himself into the chair opposite her, as if angry at her suggestion. ‘I need to talk about us. I know you want to be independent. I respect that. I will talk to a solicitor to determine how best to do so, if necessary. But Plato had it right. We have a connection. We are like an orchestra.’

‘What? An orchestra? Is this about Harwood?’ she asked, fearing that some shock must have caused such disjointed confusion.

‘What, no, what has Harwood to do with it?’

‘Nothing. You were talking about your solicitor.’

‘Right. Yes. Sorry, I am not doing this well.’ He paused, inhaling as though forcibly collecting his thoughts and ideas. ‘Sorry. I have gone about this all wrong. What I wanted to say is, Millicent Lansdowne, will you marry me?’

She gasped. She felt her mouth hang open as she stared at his dark eyes, the perfect contours of his face, the firm lips and the tiny crease of his dimple which lined his cheek. ‘Are you mocking me or asking out of pity or gratitude?’

‘Of course not. I do not go around offering to marry women out of pity or gratitude.’

‘But...’

He hurried on. ‘And I know you do not want to marry anyone. I know you want to be independent and,