“Are we ready?” Honoria asked.
The violinists lifted their instruments.
The governess’s hands hovered over the keys of her pianoforte.
Iris let out a miserable groan but nonetheless put her bow to her cello.
And then the horror began.
Chapter Twenty
Marcus could not possibly have described the sound that came forth from the four instruments in the Smythe-Smith rehearsal room.
He was not sure there were words that would be accurate, at least not in polite company. He was loath to call it music; in all honesty, it was more of a weapon than anything else.
In turn, he looked at each of the women. The governess seemed a little frantic, her head bobbing back and forth between the keys and her music. Daisy had her eyes closed and was weaving and bobbing, as if she were caught up in the glory of the—well, he supposed he had to call it music. Iris looked as if she wanted to cry.
Or possibly murder Daisy.
And Honoria . . .
She looked so lovely that he wanted to cry. Or possibly murder her violin.
She did not look as she had in last year’s musicale, when her smile had been beatific and her eyes aglow with passion. Instead she attacked her violin with grim determination, her eyes narrowed, her teeth gritted, as if she were leading her troops into battle.
She was the glue holding this ridiculous quartet together, and he could not have loved her more.
He wasn’t sure if they had intended to do the entire piece, but thankfully Iris looked up, saw him, and let out a loud enough “Oh!"
to halt the proceedings.
“Marcus!” Honoria exclaimed, and he would have sworn she looked happy to see him, except that he wasn’t so sure he trusted his judgment on the matter any longer. “Why are you here?” she asked.
He held up the pitcher. “Your mother sent me in with lemonade."
For a moment she stared, and then she burst out laughing. Iris followed suit, and the governess even cracked a smile. Daisy just stood there, looking baffled. “What is so funny?” she demanded.
“Nothing,” Honoria sputtered. “It’s simply—good heavens, the entire day—and now my mother has sent an earl in to serve us lemonade."
“I don’t find that funny,” Daisy said. “I find it inappropriate in the extreme."
“Pay no attention to her,” Iris said. “She has no sense of humor."
“That is not true!"
Marcus held himself extremely still, allowing only his eyes to glance over at Honoria for guidance. She gave a tiny nod, confirming Iris’s assessment.
“Tell us, my lord,” Iris said with great exaggeration, “what did you think of our performance?"
Under no circumstance was he going to answer that. “I’m just here to serve lemonade,” he said.
“Well done,” Honoria murmured, standing up to join him.
“I hope you have glasses,” he said to her, “because there were none for me to bring in."
“We do,” she said. “Please, won’t you pour for Miss Wynter first? She has been working the hardest, having joined the quartet only this afternoon.” Marcus murmured his assent and walked over to the piano. “Er, here you are,” he said a bit stiffly, but then again, he was not used to proffering drinks.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, holding forth a glass.
He poured, then gave her a polite bow. “Have we met?” he asked. She looked deuced familiar.
“I don’t believe so,” she replied, and she quickly took a drink.
He gave a mental shrug and moved on to Daisy. He would have supposed that the governess simply had one of those faces that always looked familiar, except that she didn’t. She was staggeringly beautiful, but in a quiet, serene way. Not at all the sort of person a mother usually wished to hire as a governess. He supposed that Lady Pleinsworth had felt safe in doing so; she had no sons, and if her husband ever left Dorset, Marcus had never seen him.
“Thank you, my lord,” Daisy said when he poured for her. “It is most democratic of you to take on such a task."
He had no idea what to say to that, so he just gave her an awkward nod and turned to Iris, who was rolling her eyes in open mockery of her sister. She smiled her thanks when he served her, and he finally was able to turn back to Honoria.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a sip.
“What are you going to do?"
She looked at him questioningly. “About what?” “The musicale,” he said, thinking that should be obvious.
“What do you mean? I shall play. What else can I do?"
He indicated the governess with a subtle motion of his head.
“You have a perfect excuse for canceling."
“I can’t do that,” Honoria replied, but there was more than a twinge of regret in her voice.
“You don’t need to sacrifice yourself for your family,” he said quietly.
“It isn’t a sacrifice. It’s—” She smiled sheepishly, maybe a little wistfully. “I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t a sacrifice.” She looked up, her eyes huge and warm in her face. “It’s what I do."
“I—"
She waited for a moment, then said, “What is it?"
He wanted to tell her he thought she was quite possibly the bravest, most unselfish person he knew. He wanted to tell her that he would sit through a thousand Smythe-Smith musicales if that was what it took to be with her.
He wanted to tell her he loved her. But he couldn’t say it here.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Just that I admire you."
She let out a little laugh. “You may take that back by the end of the evening."
“I could not do what you do,” he said quietly.
She turned and looked at him, startled by the gravity in his voice. “What do you mean?” He was not quite sure how to phrase it, so he finally went with, haltingly, “I don’t enjoy being at the center of attention."
Her head tilted to the side, she regarded him for a long moment before saying, “No. You don’t.” And then: “You were always a tree.” “I beg your pardon?"
Her eyes grew sentimental. “When we performed our awful pantomimes as children. You were always a tree."
“I never had to say anything."
“And you always got to stand at the back."
He felt himself smile, lopsided and true. “I rather liked being a tree.” “You were a very good tree.” She smiled then, too—a radiant, wondrous thing. “The world needs more trees."
By the end of the musicale, Honoria’s face ached from smiling. She grinned through the first movement, beamed through the second, and by the time they got through the third, she might as well have been at the dentist, she’d shown so much of her teeth.
The performance had been every bit as awful as she had feared.
In fact, it had quite possibly been the worst in the history of Smythe-Smith musicales, and that was no shabby feat. Anne was reasonably accomplished on the piano, and had she been given more than six hours to figure out what she was doing, she might have done a decent job of it, but as it was, she’d been consistently one and one-half bars behind the rest of the quartet.
Which was complicated by the fact that Daisy had always been one and one-half bars ahead. Iris had played brilliantly, or rather, she could have played brilliantly. Honoria had heard her practicing on her own and had been so stunned by her level of skill she would not have been surprised if Iris had suddenly stood up and announced that she was adopted.
But Iris had been so miserable at having been forced onto the makeshift stage that she’d moved her bow with no vigor at all. Her shoulders had slumped, her expression had been pained, and every time Honoria cast a glance at her, she’d appeared on the verge of running herself through with the neck of her cello.