“I don’t want you to help. I want you to obey me before you crack your head open.”
He didn’t sound in a pleasant mood at all. Well, she had woken him from a sound sleep and made a mess of his music, so she supposed she wouldn’t feel pleasant either if she was in his position.
He shuffled the music heedlessly together, jamming it back into various folios. She wanted to tell him to take care, but was wary of irritating him further. The WAR paddle was in the desk’s bottom drawer.
“I never realized you wrote music,” she said instead. “And so much of it. What a fascinating hobby.”
He made a grunt of a sound, shoving some folios back into the cabinet.
“I didn’t mean to pry and disorganize everything, I only couldn’t believe there were drawers full of it. If you like, I’ll stay up and organize it for you, perhaps by date?”
“No,” he said, and this time it was more like a growl.
“What sort of music were you writing tonight?” she asked, wishing to mollify him. “And how do you write it in here with no instrument? Why don’t you write in the ballroom, at the pianoforte?”
He rubbed his forehead, rearranging a pair of pages. “I hear it in my head by this point. I know all the notes and how they sound in various combinations.”
This was a brilliant talent, surely. How had she never known about his gift for composition when she had uncovered everything else about him, down to the name and direction of his favored courtesan? “I can barely believe how skilled you are, to play and write, and know all the notes in your head like some kind of musical savant. Why, you ought to be part of a show, a revue where people request a song and you instantly and perfectly play it, only by ear. I saw something like that once, I don’t remember when, but Warren took me and everyone was so impressed and clapped for the gentleman, although he wasn’t much to look at, or even a titled person—”
“I don’t want to be part of any shows. I’m not some dancing bear.”
The heat in his voice silenced her. She had truly angered him with her meddling. “I’m sorry. I never said you were a dancing bear. You look nothing at all like a bear, of course, and you certainly don’t play like one. If it annoys you, I won’t peek into your music cabinets again.”
“I’d prefer that you didn’t.”
“But...” She was really pushing it now. She could see it in his taut expression. “Aren’t you proud that you write music? Wouldn’t you like to share it with someone? Perhaps you can play some of your compositions at our next dinner party.”
“No, I don’t think so.” His voice softened at her crestfallen expression. “I suppose it’s difficult for you to understand, but my music is a very personal and private thing, hence my decision to write it in here, privately, and not share it with the rest of the world.”
“I only wonder if I might hear something you’ve written. I admire you so. I imagine it’s wonderful music, but it’s too far above my abilities to play it. Will you play some of it for me? Perhaps the one you like the best, your most favorite composition.”
“I’d rather not. It’s late.”
It hurt her terribly that he wouldn’t play his music for her. Did he dislike her so much? “Well, of course you needn’t play for me if you don’t want to,” she said glumly. “I’ll just put up a few decorations—”
“I don’t want you to clutter my study. We don’t decorate in here.”
“Ever?”
His eyes fell on the pile of holiday trimmings on the chair near the door. “I’m sorry. The servants ought to have told you.”
She didn’t want to admit that they had, and that she’d disregarded their instructions. He was already irritated enough. “Perhaps just a bit of holly over the fireplace.”
He thought a moment. “All right. If you want.”
She went to fetch the prettiest, glossiest holly bough of the bunch. August sat and looked at the music he’d fallen asleep on, then shuffled it into a pile and turned it over. “Are you having trouble?” she asked as she returned.
He blinked at her. “Trouble?”
“With the music?” She smiled, hoping to fortify him. “It’s so difficult to do anything at the holidays, with the calls and invitations, and gifts to purchase, and friends to have over for dinner.” She arranged the holly carefully over the hearth. Joy and peace, she thought. Bring them to him. “Will we go to any entertainments this season?” she asked, turning back to him. “Perhaps it’s insensitive to ask, with your father so ill. I ought to just leave you alone.”
“Do you want to go to entertainments?”
He looked so tired sitting there at his desk. “No,” she said quickly. “We don’t have to. We shouldn’t, I suppose.”
“It’s not your fault my father’s ailing. You should go to some balls or dinners with Warren and Josephine. I’m sure they’d be delighted to take you, especially now that Aurelia and Townsend have left town for their country estate.”
“You won’t come too?”
“I might. It depends on the day.”
Minette bit her lip. Warren and August were still not at ease with each other, so no, he probably wouldn’t come.
Her husband stared down at the pile of pages before him. “Things will get better, Minette. Next year, next Christmas we’ll have a great dinner and a ball. Would you like that? We’ll have a house party in the country and invite all our friends, and have decorations and dancing, and a yule log in every room.”
“That sounds very warm and wonderful.”
He s
miled, and a little of the tension inside her uncurled. He wasn’t angry about the music anymore, only anxious and busy and terribly sad about his father. “Next Christmas will be better,” she agreed. “Yes.”
“Will you come and give me a kiss before you go?”
“You ought to come to bed too. You look tired.”
“I’ll come up soon.”
Minette crossed to him. A hug, a kiss. She got them more now, but they were always the same—rigidly restrained and lacking in passionate desire. His arms came around her, embracing her as a brother might embrace a sister. Near the end, he brushed a hand through her hair.
“Is your head all right?”
“My head?” she asked.
“From the bump. Are you perfectly all right?”
No. I think I need a real kiss to heal me. But since that awful night when she’d had tried to pleasure him like a wanton, he’d kept her at arms’ length, so much that she feared to be bold again.
“I’m perfectly all right,” she said in a perfectly cheerful voice. “Everything is perfectly well.”
“I’m glad. And thank you,” he said, hugging her tighter. “For reading to my father and decorating my study, and for making me smile when I don’t feel like smiling.”
Minette smiled back at him, because she knew it was what she ought to do.
Chapter Thirteen: A Complex Melody
Minette put her fork down and looked around the table at her brother and his wife, and the Duke of Arlington.
“And then Lady Barrymore told me, in her ghastly warbling voice, ‘I wish for you to bear many heirs, Wilhelmina. Many fine boys, and girls too, if you must have them.’”
Josephine and her brother burst into laughter as Minette related choice snippets of the conversation she’d had with her mother-in-law the night before. “What did you reply?” asked Josie, who sat beside her.
Minette waved a hand. “Oh, something polite and boring about not having a choice in the matter. One can never think of the proper cutting response until the opportunity has passed.”
Arlington chuckled from his place across the table, poured himself more wine, and lifted a glass. “To Minette, for being polite and boring in the face of tiresome old ladies.”