realization made her feel so foolish that she couldn’t utter a word. She could only lower her head and play with the fish with her fork.
When she sensed that Lord Canfield had returned his attention to his food, she glanced down the table toward Tris to see if he’d noticed her blunder. He was frowning at her as if he had.
Canfield, meanwhile, was puzzled at Miss Branscombe’s sudden awkwardness and withdrawal. A few minutes before, out in the drawing room, she’d been warm and delightful. What had happened to transform a charming girl into this shy, distant creature?
It was then that he noticed Tris and Julie exchanging looks. It struck him that the glances were familiar and significant, the exchanges of two people who were intimately connected. The quality of those looks surprised him. Did the dragon realty tell the truth? he asked himself. Does the girl truly love Tris?
The answer to the question interested him greatly, though he didn’t quite know why. After all, it was not really a matter of concern to him. Although he’d permitted Julie’s mother to believe he was interested in courting the girl, it was very far from the truth. He’d only said it as a weapon in the battle of wills between himself and Lady Branscombe. True, he’d found her daughter a lovely, taking young woman, and he was sincere in his determination to dance with her at the next opportunity, but that was as far as he intended to go. If and when he should decide to take a wife (and despite what he’d said to the dragon, he was not at all ready for such a change in his life), there were a number of young ladies in London who had prior—and stronger—claims on his attentions. He had not the least interest in courting Miss Juliet Branscombe.
Nevertheless, he had to admit there was something fascinating about the girl. Her character was quirky, unexpected, unique. He couldn’t quite fit all the pieces together. She was a riddle he was drawn to solve. That was why he found himself watching her and Tris surreptitiously during the remainder of the meal. By the time the ladies rose from the table, he’d decided that Julie was indeed in love with her childhood companion. The way her eyes kept seeking his, with an expression that seemed to be asking for his approval, put the matter beyond any doubt.
By the time the gentlemen had finished their brandies and joined the ladies in the drawing room, the chairs had been set up in rows facing a long, narrow pianoforte that had been rolled or dragged to the center of the room. Sir William, who was evidently born to act the role of master of the revels, stepped forward, cleared his throat and announced the first selection: the ballad “She Wore a Wreath of Roses,” to be snug by Miss Elinor Severn, accompanied on the pianoforte by Miss Juliet Branscombe. The conversation stilled, the two young ladies took their places, Miss Branscombe played a brief introduction, and Miss Severn began to sing. She had a very sweet voice only slightly marred by a tremulous vibrato, but the vibrations gave her performance an emotional quality that perfectly suited the sentimental lyrics. When she finished, she was so loudly applauded that she was obliged to agree to an encore. After a quick consultation with her accompanist, she sang a throbbing rendition of “Cherry Ripe.” This too was very well received. Her cheeks glowed pink as the applause accompanied her all the way back to her seat. Miss Branscombe, meanwhile, slipped back into her own seat quite unnoticed—except by Peter, who thought she’d played very well (and incidentally had looked extraordinarily lovely perched on the piano stool with her rose-colored silk skirt spread out about her like flower petals, and the light from the chandelier haloing her hair) and who was irked that her performance had not been properly appreciated.
Sir William next announced that his own son, Ronald Kenting, would sing—a cappella—a sea chanty called “ ‘Twas in the
When she sensed that Lord Canfield had returned his attention to his food, she glanced down the table toward Tris to see if he’d noticed her blunder. He was frowning at her as if he had.
Canfield, meanwhile, was puzzled at Miss Branscombe’s sudden awkwardness and withdrawal. A few minutes before, out in the drawing room, she’d been warm and delightful. What had happened to transform a charming girl into this shy, distant creature?
It was then that he noticed Tris and Julie exchanging looks. It struck him that the glances were familiar and significant, the exchanges of two people who were intimately connected. The quality of those looks surprised him. Did the dragon realty tell the truth? he asked himself. Does the girl truly love Tris?
The answer to the question interested him greatly, though he didn’t quite know why. After all, it was not really a matter of concern to him. Although he’d permitted Julie’s mother to believe he was interested in courting the girl, it was very far from the truth. He’d only said it as a weapon in the battle of wills between himself and Lady Branscombe. True, he’d found her daughter a lovely, taking young woman, and he was sincere in his determination to dance with her at the next opportunity, but that was as far as he intended to go. If and when he should decide to take a wife (and despite what he’d said to the dragon, he was not at all ready for such a change in his life), there were a number of young ladies in London who had prior—and stronger—claims on his attentions. He had not the least interest in courting Miss Juliet Branscombe.
Nevertheless, he had to admit there was something fascinating about the girl. Her character was quirky, unexpected, unique. He couldn’t quite fit all the pieces together. She was a riddle he was drawn to solve. That was why he found himself watching her and Tris surreptitiously during the remainder of the meal. By the time the ladies rose from the table, he’d decided that Julie was indeed in love with her childhood companion. The way her eyes kept seeking his, with an expression that seemed to be asking for his approval, put the matter beyond any doubt.
By the time the gentlemen had finished their brandies and joined the ladies in the drawing room, the chairs had been set up in rows facing a long, narrow pianoforte that had been rolled or dragged to the center of the room. Sir William, who was evidently born to act the role of master of the revels, stepped forward, cleared his throat and announced the first selection: the ballad “She Wore a Wreath of Roses,” to be snug by Miss Elinor Severn, accompanied on the pianoforte by Miss Juliet Branscombe. The conversation stilled, the two young ladies took their places, Miss Branscombe played a brief introduction, and Miss Severn began to sing. She had a very sweet voice only slightly marred by a tremulous vibrato, but the vibrations gave her performance an emotional quality that perfectly suited the sentimental lyrics. When she finished, she was so loudly applauded that she was obliged to agree to an encore. After a quick consultation with her accompanist, she sang a throbbing rendition of “Cherry Ripe.” This too was very well received. Her cheeks glowed pink as the applause accompanied her all the way back to her seat. Miss Branscombe, meanwhile, slipped back into her own seat quite unnoticed—except by Peter, who thought she’d played very well (and incidentally had looked extraordinarily lovely perched on the piano stool with her rose-colored silk skirt spread out about her like flower petals, and the light from the chandelier haloing her hair) and who was irked that her performance had not been properly appreciated.
Sir William next announced that his own son, Ronald Kenting, would sing—a cappella—a sea chanty called “ ‘Twas in the
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