The seventh piece out of ten. More than half done. But… she looked closer at the list. There were four movements to each of the last three selections, instead of three.
Victoria closed her eyes and then reopened them. She looked down at the list and counted again, and saw that indeed she'd been correct.
Vampires seemed to be making their way through Society events; why couldn't one be attending the Straithwaite musicale?
There was no question that the music was beautiful; it was, and it was elegantly presented. The musicians were lovely to look at, each dressed in a different shade of blue: ice, robin's egg, cornflower, and sapphire. But one could listen to a trilling piano and a singing violin, viola, and cello for only so long without wanting to get up and walk around. Or stake a vampire.
Disappointment had her looking back down at the program again, willing the musical sisters to begin playing Mozart's Piano Concerto in D Minor, the last piece on the list.
At that moment, Victoria felt a shift of air over the back of her neck. It was cool. She straightened in her seat, no longer drowsy and bored. At last. Something to occupy her mind!
She tried to look around without appearing to do so. Then she realized the coolness was gone. And she saw that the shift in the air had merely been the faint lifting of breeze through an open window, which someone had blessedly had the sense to open.
Victoria stilled, waiting, breathing with long, slow breaths so she could focus all of her attention on the barometer at the back of her neck. Surely she'd felt something cool. It wasn't just the breeze.
But nothing changed.
When the Straithwaite sisters at last began the final selection in the program, Victoria felt a change behind her—as if someone were looking at her. The hair at the back of her neck tickled, sending shivers down one arm.
It wasn't a vampire, no. She didn't sense that. It wasn't an uncomfortable feeling. It was…
Victoria dropped her program and, ignoring her mother's frown, bent to pick it up, turning to look behind her as she did.
It was Rockley, standing at the back of the room, obviously a late—very late—arrival to the musicale. Victoria didn't know whether to be annoyed that he hadn't had to sit through the whole program, or delighted that he was there. Of course, there was no reason to believe he was there because she was.
Victoria looked at the three unmarried Straithwaite sisters with new eyes. Was he here to court one of them? They were all beautiful, even though the youngest was rather young, at just sixteen, to be debuted. And they were wealthy—much more so than Victoria was.
Now she was not only bored, but annoyed as well.
Then the last movement of the concerto ended. The string musicians pulled their bows away from their instruments for the last time. The pianist pushed back the bench and stood to join them in perfectly choreographed curtsies.
Everyone was applauding and standing up, at last. Victoria assumed it was from relief that the show had ended. But when she would have stood, Lady Melly snatched at her arm and pulled her back down into her seat.
"Rockley is here," she hissed into her ear.
"I know that, Mother."
"He's coming this way, Victoria. Remain seated. I am sure he will make his way to us."
But what if he didn't?
Then… "Lady Grantworth," came the smooth voice from behind her. It sent lovely prickles down her spine and sounded warm and familiar. "How lovely you look this evening. I trust you enjoyed the musicale?"
Then suddenly he was there, in front of her, standing in the small space between the rows of seats. Victoria didn't hear her mother's response to his question; she presumed it was one designed to take his attention off herself and direct it onto her daughter. "Miss Grantworth," he said with a bow and a delicious smile. "I find that I still have quite the thirst from last evening. Would you care to accompany me for some lemonade?"
Looking up at him from her spot on the red velvet chair, Victoria felt a smile of relief and pleasure relax her face. He was looking at her as if they were old friends… perhaps more than old friends. When he offered his hand, she stood, and he pulled her up. The cloth of their gloves slid against each other with a dull friction, but she was certain that wasn't the only reason her hand felt suddenly warm. "I am terribly thirsty," she replied, slipping her hand around his arm. It felt comfortable, as if it belonged there. "Lemonade sounds lovely, Lord Rockley."
Asking for permission to be excused was a moot point, for Lady Melly nearly pushed them away and turned to speak with an acquaintance.
Victoria, feeling her face warm from embarrassment, looked up at the marquess and said quietly, "It is no secret how my mother feels about your thirst. Indeed, I fear that she might be willing to send you to the desert in order to ensure that you are not quenched."
"Indeed. I feared she might drag me from my seat to yours if I did not find my own way quickly enough."
Victoria bumped into his arm as he tugged her gently around a corner, following the others out of the ballroom, and looked up at him, mortification heating her face. "Oh, dear… I spoke only in fun, my lord! My mother is indeed like a sharp-toothed bulldog. I shall call her off immediately—"
"Miss Grantworth, I was only jesting. It gives me great pleasure that not only did I have the serendipity to see you two nights in a row, but more so that I was able to make it through the crowd to your side and sweep you away before any of your other beaux might do so."
His words were light, but as they strolled through an entryway into the dining room, she read a different expression in his eyes. Under those heavy lids that on another man might have made him look lazy or insouciant, Rockley looked at her with a heavy concentration that made her feel almost faint… nearly as light-headed as the vampire had, just before he bit her last night.
At that thought, Victoria reached up quickly, grabbing at the curl that hung just so over her shoulder, to make sure it was still in place, covering the four red marks. She pulled it straight with nervous fingertips, then let it spring gently back into a concealing corkscrew.
And she realized he'd asked her a question. And was awaiting an answer.
"Too many to count, then, Miss Grantworth?" His voice leveled, and even over the rising noise from the other musicale attendees, she could hear its different inflection. "Apparently I should have resisted the urge to visit Tattersall's today, and instead made my presence known at Grantworth House."
"My mother and I would have welcomed you most graciously had you chosen to attend us today."
"I am well aware that your mother would have done so… but I fear the question is more complicated than that, Miss Grantworth. You told me quite directly that you are in no haste to marry, and while I find that refreshing and a bit off-putting… I should rather know for certain how difficult it would be should a gentleman wish to urge you along that path." They'd stopped walking now, and were standing near a cluster of people crowding the tables of food and drink. Three dozen people milled about, but for all of that, when Victoria looked up at Lord Rockley, she felt as if they were alone.
His arm had clamped her wrist close to his body as they walked, but now he allowed it to slide free as he turned toward her, standing with his back to the room as if protecting her, shielding her from the crowd.
Victoria felt a large, beaming smile work itself out from inside. "Lord Rockley, I would have been particularly delighted had you called on Grantworth House today."
The austerity in his face lessened. "I am pleased to hear that, Miss Grantworth." He reached for her hand and slipped it around his arm. "Shall we find that lemonade I've been promising you?"
As they stood in line to wait for lemonade, Rockley nudged her gently with his elbow as if to gain her attention. She looked up at him, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of comfort. Here was a kind, handsome man who appeared to be interested in her as a potential wife… and whom she felt the urge to come to know better. To kiss, even. A man her mother would approve—no, thrust upon her. A man who had remembered her for more than seven years.