Never Dance with a Marquess (The Never Series Book 2), Maggi Andersen [best short novels of all time TXT] 📗

Chapter Six

The following morning, Gwen preparing to leave, stood with Nicholas and the girls on the driveway. She kissed Nicholas. “Carrie will be well received in London. I am hopeful of getting vouchers for Almacks after her presentation in June.”

“How wonderful!” Carrie smiled. “Thank you for all you’ve done, Gwen. I am so looking forward to joining you in London.”

“I did very little, my dear. And London, well, I will enjoy every minute! As we’ve discussed, you must add to your wardrobe. I shall send your measurements and details to my dressmaker. I have explicit trust in her taste and judgment.” She kissed them both. “Goodbye, my dears.”

She turned to him. “Farewell Nicholas. Winston will appreciate the Cognac.”

“Given with my hearty best wishes,” Nicholas said, “for your husband is a sterling fellow.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I am very grateful to you both, Gwen.”

As the coach trundled away, he tried not to feel discouraged; he really had little reason to be. Bella returned to the schoolroom for a French lesson without complaint, while Carrie mentioned a visit to the music room to play the piano. “I shall see you both at dinner,” he said and returned to his library.

His secretary awaited him with a pile of correspondence. Nicholas was soon engrossed in business matters. Once the letters were ready for the post, he dismissed Williams and settled down to write a chapter about the Battle of Ligny. Two hours later, he’d written a brief paragraph and changed several sentences. Unsettled, he acknowledged he wasn’t in the mood to write, rose from his chair, content to leave it. He admitted how unlike him that was as he left the library.

Strains of the lovely Moonlight Sonata wafted down the corridors from the music room. Nicholas was drawn to it, for it was played with so much tender emotion. Carrie. He opened the door. She paused, her hands over the keys.

He stepped into the room. “Please don’t stop. I was enjoying it. You play the sonata beautifully.”

“Thank you.” Carrie wrapped a lock of her hair through her fingers. Nicholas watched in fascination as the curl settled back against her cheek. He recognized this as a sign she was nervous. She placed her fingers on the keys and began again but had somehow lost the magic. Nicholas regretted interrupting her. He folded his arms and leaned against the back of the sofa until the last note. What thoughts produced that depth of emotion he’d heard in her playing before he entered? Was his presence like a dash of cold water?

Disliking the thought, he sat on the sofa. “Come and sit with me. We’ve had little time to talk.”

She seated herself on the sofa at a demure distance from him.

“You appeared lost in the music,” he ventured. “You must be a devotee of Beethoven.”

“I am.”

“Does the piece make you think of something in the past, or someone, perhaps?”

She flushed. “Yes.”

“Some…person left behind in Yorkshire that you miss?”

“A few friends and the staff at Leeming.”

A surge of relief flooded through him, which he knew to be entirely selfish. He didn’t want to have to deal with Carrie’s unfulfilled love for some unsuitable fellow. If Max had approved of him, he would have mentioned it in his last letter. Carrie had no opportunity to meet anyone while in mourning.

“It is a piece I loved to play at Leeming for Papa,” she said in a soft voice.

“Of course.” What a thick-headed fool he was. He wanted to put his arm around her but feared it might be misconstrued. “You are eager to go to London?”

“Oh yes.” She smiled, but her response lacked enthusiasm. “I’ve never visited the metropolis.”

That wasn’t what he meant, but he let it be. “You enjoy poetry, Bella tells me. Byron is a favorite?”

Her bosom rose with a sigh. “Yes, his poetry and passion for life.”

“A life well-lived,” Nicholas murmured, tensing his jaw. Byron’s life was a little too well lived, in his opinion. A man should take care of his estate rather than kicking up his heels abroad and causing scandals wherever he went.

“Do you have a favorite poet?” Carrie asked.

Her question required a response, and he knew his answer would be a disappointment. “I am not a great devotee of poetry.”

“My father wasn’t fond of what he called the new crop of Romantic poets,” she said. “He preferred Pope and Andrew Marvell.”

“Fine poets,” Nicholas agreed. He thought of Marvell’s poem To His Coy Mistress, a saucy poem enticing his mistress to bed. “Donne, too.”

“I dislike Donne, he is sometimes quite…bawdy.” Her serious gaze sought his as if in defiance. “I prefer Keats.”

“I enjoy Donne’s wit. Melancholy fellow, Keats.”

“But he writes so splendidly of love, beauty, and nature. Surely you must agree.”

“I agree with your father. The Romantics are too self-centered. I can’t say I’m in favor of their work.”

She looked at him aghast. “Indeed, you are wrong. Keats writes of removal of self.”

“Does he? I haven’t seen it.”

“You must read more of his poems…you are missing a great deal.”

Nicholas smiled. “Then I invite you to educate me and change my mind.”

She nodded, a gleam in her eyes. “I shall try.”

While he doubted any discussion would alter his opinion, for he admired those employed in useful industry and poetry which reflected it, rather than these pasty-faced scribes. But he liked to see her eager and fired up with purpose, and he didn’t wish to put a dampener on that. “You might find some music to play for us this evening.”

“I shall be pleased to.”

Nicholas rose and made his way to the door. “Your brother arrives tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait to see him.” Her brow lifted. “He has worried me this past year.”

Nicholas returned to stand before her. “What