How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

He shook his head with a crooked smile. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

The music cradled them and swept them around the room in a cocoon of warmth. Conall’s movements were powerful and simple, he was in total control of the space. The stares made Persephone stumble, but his arms tightened and no one noticed her misstep. Gradually the itchiness and the weight of being watched faded. She could enjoy being so close to him, the way his muscles moved under her hands, the way his eyes stayed on hers, as if they shared a secret.

Well, they shared many secrets, but he made this one feel delicious, private.

She found she was sorry when the dance ended and he escorted her back to the grandmother. She looked vaguely like an éclair tonight, all cream-colored lace and chocolate-brown velvet. “You do make a fine pair,” her grandmother fluttered her fan. “So handsome.”

“He is, rather.”

“I meant you, my dear.” Persephone hugged her grandmother tightly. She patted Persephone’s arm fondly. “I like to see you dancing.”

Someone opened one of the terrace doors and the night ruffled through the room, touching flowers and ribbons and painted fans. The beeswax candles from the chandelier above dripped wax onto Persephone’s glove and the edge of the table. Her grandmother clucked her tongue and moved them aside. One of the candles gutted out, spitting smoked and tiny bits of burning wax. They landed on the table, burning through the lace tablecloth. A footman darted forward, slapping at the sparks with his gloved hands. “Never say a dance is a dull affair,” her grandmother remarked.

Now safe against the wall, Persephone couldn’t help but watch Conall as he accompanied another lady onto the floor. He was so graceful, so fine-looking. And she wasn’t the only woman watching him tonight. How could she be? His eyes glittered like spring leaves under the candlelight. But she fancied she might be the only one to notice the sudden tension in his shoulders when he joined a group of gentlemen near the refreshments table. He tossed back the contents of his glass in one swallow, his throat tense. His jaw was too tight.

The acrid smoke reached her corner of the ballroom, stinging her nose. She thought she might understand what had caused the sudden stiffness in Conall. During the fireworks, he’d mentioned it wasn’t the sounds so much as the smell of the smoke that had distressed him. He’d known to hide himself away in the shadows then but there was no schedule for a tablecloth catching fire.

She approached the knot of fine gentlemen, her own nerves vanished. She had a mission, and they could eat their starched cravats if they thought to keep her from them. She curtsied and smiled like the newly betrothed lady she was meant to be. “My lords, if I may steal my fiancé?”

She ignored the winks and hearty laughs, though they were preferable to the slow blinking stares down the end of the nose. It was terribly gauche to seem enamored of one’s betrothed. Sod them. Better they think her backwards than what they would think should Conall lose the very brittle grip on his calm. She couldn’t think how no one else noticed the way his smile was all wrong, the way his nostrils flared when he breathed, as if the air was too thin.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” he bowed, too sharp, too abrupt. No one noticed that either.

She slipped her arm into his and steered him into the hall where the light was softer, and the sounds muffled. He attempted to pull free. “I’ll be fine,” he said.

“I’m sure you will,” she agreed, lightly. “Now come with me.”

She led him past the other drawing rooms, the dining room being cleared by footmen, the duke’s library. She didn’t stop until they had reached the music room, filled with plants, a fine pianoforte, a harp, and several violins. Paintings of bucolic forests with attendant nymphs frolicked along the walls. Conall watched her light the oil lamps. “Persephone, go back to the dancing. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m not worried,” she said, though in truth she wasn’t keen on the waxy sheen to his brow. He flinched when a footman dropped a tray and the sudden clap of sound seemed to reverberate through the room. “I would simply like to hear some violin music.”

He blinked. If she had to confuse him out of being beset, she would. “Violin?”

“Yes, please.”

“Percy, I haven’t played in years. Not properly.”

“Well, I can’t play at all, so it hardly signifies.” He opened his mouth to argue some more. “Is it not my right as your fiancée to request a serenade? At our betrothal dinner?”

His expression was wry. “And here you thought you wouldn’t be able to pretend well enough to convince anyone.”

She flashed him a grin. “I’m practicing.”

“I can see that.”

He went to the nearest violin case and took out the bow, tightening the horsehair and covering it with rosin. Only then did he raise the instrument into place. The knot of muscles along his shoulders softened. He took the bow in his other hand. “Hello, there,” he murmured, as if greeting an old friend.

He tested a few notes and then suddenly they were strung together to turn into music, like beads in a glittering necklace. It was soft and melancholic, tickling the tiny hairs on the back of Persephone’s neck. Her throat itched, as if she might cry. He played on, eyes finally closing, fingers working easily and confidently. She saw the old Conall, the one who had lost himself so utterly to his music that Tamsin had once managed to sneak close enough to dump a bucket of water over his head. She’d been thirteen and he’d been coldly furious, concerned only about possible damage to his violin. They’d had to make a pact not to involve musical instruments in any prank after that.

He’d still snuck spiders into Tamsin’s clothespress the very next day.

While Persephone sifted through memories of Conall playing at midnight in the ballroom, or in the nursery when guests visited with their children, she could tell that he was remembering nothing at all. The memories that gripped him too tightly had faded. There was only the music in his ears. She knew she had disappeared too, as well as the painted nymphs and the vases of hydrangeas, the plush carpet underfoot. All of it until the last note shivered and he opened his eyes again.

“Another, if you please,” Persephone said. “Something jaunty.”

“I know what you’re doing,” he replied drily.

“Is it working?”