Secrets in the Regency Ballroom: The Wayward Governess / His Counterfeit Condesa. Joanna Fulford

rarely are popular,’ said Marcus.

      ‘Wraxall is a mill owner, too. He was the first to cut wages.’

      ‘Ah, I see.’

      ‘I am glad you have chosen this way to find your brother’s killers.’

      ‘I hope the disappearance of Mark Eden didn’t cause you any difficulties?’

      ‘None at all. As you asked, I gave it out that he had gone to stay with relatives further north. I left the destination suitably vague.’

      ‘I am much obliged to you, George.’

      ‘No offence, but I rather hope Eden does not return.’

      The Viscount smiled wryly. ‘Really? I rather liked him.’

      ‘Seriously, Marcus.’

      ‘Seriously, George, so do I.’

      A short time later they rejoined the ladies in the drawing room and the conversation was directed into other channels for a while. Then George suggested some music. The Viscount’s grey eyes gleamed. Recalling the story-telling episode on the way to Harrogate, he looked straight at Claire and seized his opportunity for revenge.

      ‘Perhaps Miss Davenport will oblige us with a song.’

      As he had foreseen, Claire could hardly refuse. He watched as she got up and moved to the pianoforte. When her back was to the others she threw him a most eloquent look. His grin widened. Enjoying himself enormously, he followed her to the instrument and riffled through the sheet music until he found the piece he was looking for. Then he handed it to her.

      Torn between annoyance and amusement Claire took it from him, scanning it quickly. In fact it was neither difficult nor unfamiliar as she had suspected it might be. He wasn’t that unkind, she decided. All the same she would have preferred not to be the centre of attention. Thank goodness it wasn’t a large company.

      ‘I’ll turn the pages for you,’ he said.

      Undeceived by that courteous offer she nevertheless returned him a sweet smile.

      ‘How very kind.’

      The grey eyes held a decidedly mischievous glint, but he vouchsafed no reply and merely stationed himself beside her. Supremely conscious of his proximity but unable to do anything about it, she turned her attention to the music. Then, taking a deep breath, she settled down to play.

      After hearing the opening bars Marcus’s amusement faded and was replaced by pleasure and surprise; she played and sang beautifully, more so than he could ever have supposed. He had expected competence, but not the pure liquid notes that filled the room. Her voice was clear and true and had besides a haunting quality that sent a shiver down his spine and seemed to thrill to the core of his being. He had heard the song countless times, but never so movingly rendered. When at last it came to an end he was quite still for some moments before he recollected himself enough to join in the applause. He wasn’t alone in thinking the performance good. Greystoke too had been much struck by it.

      ‘Wonderful!’ he said at last. ‘First class, Miss Davenport.’

      ‘I had a first-class teacher,’ she replied, looking at Ellen.

      ‘There can be no doubt about that,’ Marcus replied. ‘You are both to be congratulated.’ This time there was no trace of mischief in his face when he looked at Claire. ‘Please, won’t you play something else?’

      Her heart beat a little faster for he had never used quite that tone before. It was unwontedly humble. Controlling her surprise, she could only acquiesce.

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      Turning to the pile of music, she drew out a piece at random. It was much more difficult and she was glad of it for it meant she wouldn’t be tempted to look at him instead. However, she soon became conscious that he felt no such constraint. Her skin seemed to burn beneath that penetrating gaze and only with a real effort of will could she keep her expression impassive and her concentration on the music. Soon enough the melody claimed her and filled her soul. Marcus saw her surrender to it and felt all the passion of that skilled performance as he too was transported. He knew then that he was listening to something quite out of the ordinary, something that both awed and delighted, and he didn’t want it to end.

      When it did he was first to lead the applause. However, the others were not far behind him. George Greystoke got to his feet.

      ‘Bravo, Miss Davenport!’

      She received their praise with a gracious smile and then rose from the piano stool, insisting that Ellen be allowed her turn. When her friend bowed to the pressure Claire retired to a seat across the room. Marcus’s gaze followed her, but he remained by the pianoforte and presently turned his attention to his guest, consulting with her about the choice of music and then waiting to turn the pages as she played. He was, thought Claire, a most courteous host, and, seeing him now, his attentions to herself did not seem so marked at all, but rather the good manners of one accustomed to moving in the first circles. It was foolish to refine on a look or a gesture. He would treat any female guest with the same polished courtesy.

      The remainder of the time passed agreeably enough until, soon after the tea tray had been brought in, the Greystokes took their leave.

      ‘It has been a most delightful evening,’ said Ellen as they stood together in the hallway.

      ‘I hope to have the pleasure of seeing it soon repeated,’ Marcus replied.

      He shook hands with George and then came to stand by Claire to wave the guests off.

      ‘Miss Greystoke is right,’ he observed as the carriage pulled away. ‘It has been a most delightful evening.’

      Claire glanced up at him and smiled. ‘Yes, it has.’

      They remained there together until the vehicle was lost to view round a bend in the drive, and then turned and walked back into the hallway. For a moment they paused, neither one speaking. Aware of him to her very fingertips, wanting to linger and knowing she must not, she forced herself to a polite curtsy.

      ‘I’ll bid you a goodnight, sir.’

      Marcus wanted to detain her, but could think of no valid reason for doing so. Instead he took her hand and carried it to his lips.

      ‘Goodnight then, Miss Davenport.’

      Reluctantly he watched her walk away and then returned to the drawing room and poured himself a large brandy from the decanter on the table. He tossed it back in one go and poured another. As he did so he glanced across the room to the pianoforte and, in his imagination, heard Claire singing and knew again the frisson along his spine. He also knew that what he felt was a damn sight more than admiration for fine musical skill. When they had been alone together after the guests had gone he had wanted to take her in his arms. No, he corrected himself, what he had really wanted to do was carry her up the stairs to his bedchamber and make love to her all night.

      Almost immediately he felt self-contempt. Claire Davenport was not some trollop to be used for an idle hour’s amusement. She was a respectable young woman. She was Lucy’s governess, for heaven’s sake. A role he had appointed her to. Any liaison between them would make that position untenable and he would be responsible for ruining her reputation and then for causing her to leave. Only a real cur would do that. Only a cur put his own desire before the welfare of the woman he claimed to care for. For both their sakes there could be no familiarity between them. It was not only his feelings and hers that were involved here, but Lucy’s, too. She was beginning to settle into her new home, to trust him. It was obvious that she was also growing attached to her new governess. Could he be responsible for the loss of yet another person she cared for? Could he put her through that? It needed but a moment’s thought to know the answer. There must be no advances to Claire, no matter what it cost him. Had she been living with the Greystokes it might have been different, but the minute he hired her he had put her out of reach. The irony did not escape him.

      Claire returned to