Feeling soothed, reassured, and secure, she mentally wrapped the knowledge of her love for him around her, curled more definitely against his hard body, and let sleep claim her.
Frederick woke in the late afternoon. Somewhat warily, he shifted his head and looked down at Stacie.
She was still asleep, the lingering remnants of desire a delicate tinge on her alabaster cheeks.
He considered the sight, considered the intensity of their most recent lovemaking, and prayed that her lack of prior experience continued to leave her unaware that the emotion that drove him—that invested his every touch and was, to him, so apparent in his worship of her—was anything especially noteworthy.
In truth, he’d had no idea love—the force encompassed by that simple word—would prove so powerful, so impossible to control, so undeniable and compelling.
That she’d been in danger, that she’d been close to some assailant wielding a knife, had chilled him; he’d been battling to hold his reactions inside, but her distress had ripped through all the screens and veils he’d fought to keep in place, and his love had surged free, and he’d reached for her.
He hoped she hadn’t seen the truth; he was perfectly certain she hadn’t yet reached the point that he could with impunity confess to having slid around her stipulation. Regardless, he was going to have to be more careful in the future.
Love wasn’t an emotion to underestimate. There was now very little he would not do to protect her—to hold on to her and keep her safe.
In the middle of the following morning, Stacie started down the main stairs and heard distant notes falling upon the air—Frederick was playing the piano in the music room.
She’d just finished her usual morning meeting with Mrs. Macaffrey. When Stacie wasn’t in residence, she’d discovered that Mrs. Macaffrey operated at her own discretion; apparently, the dowager had declared some years ago that she no longer considered herself mistress of the house, so Mrs. Macaffrey was free to organize as she wished. However, once Stacie had arrived, the housekeeper had insisted proper protocol be observed, and so they had to meet every morning to review the menus and any pending household business.
On reaching the last step, with her hand on the newel post, Stacie paused to listen. The piece Frederick was playing—practicing, it seemed—had a beautiful lilting melody. As she listened, she realized she’d heard segments of it over the past weeks at the Hall. She wondered what the piece was—it didn’t sound like Mendelssohn or Haydn, much less Beethoven. Possibly Bach, although she couldn’t place it.
After the excitement of the day before, she and Frederick had enjoyed a quiet dinner with the dowager, Emily, and Ernestine; they’d agreed there was no need to worry the ladies with news of the incident with the curricle, and it was unlikely they would otherwise hear of it.
A series of delicate trills, leaping and dancing, tugged her on.
/>
She stepped onto the hall tiles and turned toward the music room, but before she reached the corridor that led into that wing, the music cut off, then she heard Frederick’s footsteps coming toward her.
She halted and waited and was ready with a smile when he emerged from the corridor and saw her.
His answering smile was relaxed and, despite the lurking problem of their unknown villain, held a measure of content. “Ah—you’re down.”
Before she could ask him what he’d been playing, Frederick continued, “I wondered if you wanted to visit the music school—you mentioned you intended to, and checking up on our protégés sounds an excellent idea, especially if you hope to hold another of your evenings in a few weeks’ time.”
“Indeed.” She widened her eyes at him. “Are you free to accompany me?”
Frederick had decided that, henceforth, nothing would keep him from her side, not until they’d solved the riddle of who was behind the attacks. He wasn’t convinced that he was the sole target; she’d always been present as well. “I am. We’ll have to take the town carriage, as my curricle is no more.”
Fortingale appeared, and Frederick gave orders for the carriage to be brought around. Stacie declared her lemon morning gown perfectly appropriate for the visit; Frederick helped her don her half cape while she quizzed him about ordering a new curricle.
Once in the carriage and on their way, he instigated a discussion of the performers she’d mooted adding to her next event and on whether it might prove useful to focus on the works of one composer per evening and, if so, which one.
She was as easy to distract with music as he was. The options kept them engrossed as the carriage rolled smoothly along Piccadilly, down Haymarket to Pall Mall, and eventually, circled Trafalgar Square.
Jenkins, Frederick’s coachman, was an experienced driver; he successfully negotiated the tangle of traffic and pulled up the carriage beside the curb before the steps of St Martin’s colonnaded porch.
Frederick opened the door and stepped down. As was usual during the day, the pavements surrounding the raised square with its monumental column were filled with a busy, jostling throng, everyone bustling about their business. Instinctively, he glanced around, then turned and gave Stacie his hand.
She gripped it, and he assisted her to the pavement.
Stacie released Frederick’s hand and bent to shake out her skirts, then she straightened and turned to him.
And time seemed to slow.
Frederick was looking at her, smiling, waiting to take her arm and escort her up the steps.
Beyond him, a heavyset man stepped out of the crowd and lunged at Frederick.