Erin Knightley - Flirting With Fortune

“Sir Frederick is the entire reason that we met, and I am forever grateful to him for bringing you to me. And now, as my betrothal gift to you—and your family, for that matter—I’d like very much to bring him to you.”

On cue, two footmen came into the room, carrying a framed canvas covered by a sheet. Colin watched it with interest, then turned his charcoal gaze back to her. “Is this what’s become of the portrait you painted for me?” He smiled broadly, softening the angles of his face. “I told you to use your own techniques, not his.”

She bit her lip and shook her head, suddenly swamped with unexpected butterflies. His portrait was completed. In fact, she had finished just this week, signing the mainly black, white, and gray painting with a crimson kiss in the bottom corner. But that was for later—this was for his whole family. His siblings watched her with curious gazes, while Gran eyed her with a spark lighting her whole face. Did she suspect?

A third footman set up a small easel, and the others set their bundle on it before retreating. “I’m sorry to say it’s not that painting, but I’m hoping this one will be infinitely more dear.”

Watching her soon-to-be family, she grasped the edge of the sheet and drew a deep breath. Her life with them wouldn’t begin when she exchanged her vows, but when she lifted the sheet, returning to them all that they had sacrificed because of her stubbornness. She caught Colin’s eye and basked in the love and joy held in his gaze. With her heart bursting with excitement, she counted down to the rest of her life.

Five, four, three, two . . .

Hell and damnation, was he to have no peace at all?

Hugh Danby, the new and exceedingly reluctant Baron Cadgwith, pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, pushing back against the fresh pounding that the godforsaken noise next door had reawakened.

“Go to Bath,” his sister-in-law had said. “It’s practically deserted in the summer. Think of the peace and quiet you’ll have.”

Bloody hogwash. This torture was about as far from peace as one could get. Not that he blamed Felicity; clearly the news of the first annual Summer Serenade in Somerset festival hadn’t made it to their tiny little corner of England when she offered her seemingly useful suggestion. Still, he’d love to get his hands on the person who thought it was a good idea to organize the damn thing.

He tugged the pillow from the empty spot beside him and crammed it over his head, trying to muffle the jaunty pianoforte music filtering through the shared wall of his bedchamber. The notes were high and fast, like a foal prancing in a springtime meadow. Or, more aptly, a foal prancing on his eardrums.

There was no hope for it. There would be no more sleep for him now.

Tossing the useless pillow, he rolled to his side, bracing himself for the wave of nausea that always greeted him on mornings like this. Ah, there it was. He gritted his teeth until it passed, then dragged himself up into a sitting position and glanced about the room.

The curtains were closed tight, but the afternoon sunlight still forced its way around the edges, causing a white-hot seam that felt as if it burned straight through his retinas. He squinted and looked away, focusing instead on the dark burgundy-and-brown Aubusson rug on the floor. His clothes were still scattered in a trail leading to the bed, and several empty glasses lined his nightstand.

Ah, thank God—not all were empty.

He reached for the one still holding a good finger of liquid and brought it to his nose. Brandy. With a shrug, he drained the glass, squeezing his eyes against the burn.

Still the music, if one could call it that, continued. Must the blasted pianoforte player have such a love affair with brain-cracking high notes? Though he’d yet to meet the neighbors who occupied the adjoining town house, he knew without question she was a female. No self-respecting male would have the time, inclination, or enthusiasm to play such musical drivel.

Setting the tumbler back down on the nightstand, he scrubbed both hands over his face, willing the alcohol to deaden the pounding in his brain. The notes grew louder and faster, rising to a crescendo that could surely be heard all the way home in Cadgwith, some two hundred miles away.

And then . . . blessed silence.

He closed his eyes and breathed out a long breath. The hush settled over him like a balm, quieting the ache and lowering his blood pressure. Thank God. He’d rather walk barefoot through glass than—

The music roared back to life, pounding the nails back into his skull with the relentlessness of waves pounding a beach at high tide. Damn it all to hell. Grimacing, he tossed aside the counterpane and came to his feet, ignoring the violent protest of his head. Reaching for his clothes, he yanked them on with enough force to rip the seams, had they been of any lesser quality.

It was bloody well time he met his neighbors.

Freedom in D Minor.

Charity Effington grinned at the words she had scrawled at the top of the rumpled foolscap, above the torrent of hastily drawn notes that danced up and down the static five-lined staff.

The title could not be more perfect.

Sighing with contentment, she set down her pencil on the burled oak surface of her pianoforte and stretched. Whenever she had days like this, when the music seemed to pour from her soul like water from an upturned pitcher, her shoulders and back inevitably paid the price.

She unfurled her fingers, reaching toward the unlit chandelier that hung above her. The room was almost too warm, with sunlight pouring through the sheers that covered the wide windows facing the private gardens behind the house, but she didn’t mind. She’d much rather be here in the stifling heat than up north with her parents and their stifling expectations.

And Grandmama couldn’t have chosen a more perfect town house to rent. With soaring ceilings, airy rooms, and generous windows lining both the front and back—not to mention the gorgeous pianoforte she now sat at—it was a wonderful little musical retreat.

Exactly what Charity needed after the awfulness of the last Season.

Dropping her hands to the keys once more, she closed her eyes and purged all thoughts of that particular topic from her mind. It was never good for creativity to focus on stressful topics. Exhaling, she stretched her fingers over the cool ivory keys, finding her way by touch.

Bliss. The pianoforte was perfectly tuned, the notes floating through the air like wisps of steam curling from the Baths. Light and airy, the music reflected the joy filling her every pore. Freedom.

Free from her mother and her relentless matchmaking. Free from the gossip that seemed to follow her like a fog. Free from all the strict rules every young lady must abide by during the Season.

The notes rose higher as her right hand swept up the scale, tapping the keys with the quickness of a flitting hummingbird. Her left hand provided counterbalance with low, smooth notes that anchored the song.

A sudden noise from the doorway startled her from her trance, abruptly stopping the flow of music and engulfing the room in an echoing silence. Jeffers, Grandmama’s ancient butler, stood in the doorway, his stooped shoulders oddly rigid.

“I do beg your pardon, Miss Effington. Lady Effington requests your presence in the drawing room.”

Now? Just when she was truly finding her stride? But Charity wasn’t about to make the woman wait—not after she had single-handedly saved Charity from a summer of tedium in Durham with her disgruntled parents. “Thank you, Jeffers,” she said, coming to her feet.

She headed down the stairs, humming the beginning of her new creation. Her steps were in time with the music in her mind, which had her moving light and fast on her feet. The town house was medium sized, with more than enough room for the two of them and the four servants Grandmama had brought, so it only took her a minute to reach the spacious drawing room from the music room.

Breezing through the doorway with a ready smile on her face, Charity came up short when the person before her was most definitely not her four-foot-eleven silver-haired grandmother.

Mercy!

She only just managed to contain her squeak of surprise at the sight of the tall, lanky man standing in the middle of the room, his rumpled dark clothes in stark contrast to the cheery soft blues and golds of the immaculate drawing room. She swallowed, working to keep her expression passive as her mind raced to figure out who on earth the man was.

Charity had never seen him before—of that, she was absolutely sure. It would be impossible to forget the distinctive scars crisscrossing his left temple and disappearing into his dark blond hair. One of the puckered white lines cut through his eyebrow, dividing it neatly in half before ending perilously close to one of his vividly green—and terribly bloodshot—eyes.

He was watching her unflinchingly, accepting her inspection. Or perhaps he was simply indifferent to it. It was . . . disconcerting.

“There you are,” Grandmama said, snapping Charity’s attention away from the stranger. Sitting primly at her usual spot on the overstuffed sofa centered in the room, her grandmother offered Charity a soft smile. “Charity, Lord Cadgwith has kindly come over to introduce himself. He is to be our neighbor for the summer.”