The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

She arched her brows, then nodded. “Let’s call them that, then—musical evenings. That sounds more inviting—more intimate.”

“As our aim is to entice the ton’s ladies to attend, then such a label is more likely to be successful.”

She didn’t miss the cynicism in his tone.

Th

ey reached the double doors, and he opened them, and she glided through. “This is the morning room.” Filling the rear corner of the house, the room boasted long windows that gave onto a small paved terrace, beyond which rolled the manicured rear lawn, bordered by richly planted flower beds. The garden was enclosed by high brick walls.

She halted and, spreading her arms, turned in a circle. “We’ll open all three rooms—having both sets of doors open doesn’t appreciably alter the acoustics in the music room.”

He shot her an approving glance. “You’ve tried it?”

She nodded. “Again, one of the reasons I settled on this house. I’d already formed the notion of hosting musical events.” She tipped her head his way. “Musical evenings.”

He glanced back, across the music room to the drawing room. “You’ll be able to accommodate quite a crowd in acceptable comfort.”

“Indeed. We’ll have rows of chairs in the music room, of course, but those who might prefer to remain in the armchairs here and in the drawing room will still be able to hear the performance reasonably well.”

He nodded.

“And through here”—she pointed at another door, then walked to it—“is the dining room, where we’ll serve supper.”

He followed her through that door, idly glanced at the dining table, chairs, and sideboards, then trailed after her through the main dining room door, and so into the rear of the front hall.

When they reached the main body of the hall, she halted in the space before the stairs and arched her brows at him. “What do you think?”

He met her eyes and nodded. “This will do very well—with one addition. We need a room—it doesn’t have to be large, but preferably on this level—where our musicians can wait prior to their performances and to which they can retreat afterward.”

She widened her eyes. “I hadn’t thought of that, but”—she waved him to the corridor leading away from the hall, opposite the music room—“my private parlor might suit.”

She led him down the short corridor to the room at the end—an elegant yet comfortable space at the side of the house. She regarded the long, narrow room as her personal retreat.

He paused beside her just inside the room, looked around, and nodded. “This will be perfect. We’ll only have at most five musicians, some with instruments, but there’s space enough.” He glanced up the corridor to the hall and the reception rooms beyond. “And it’s sufficiently distant to give nervous musicians some peace.”

He turned to her. “I can see our musical evenings will not fail for want of location and amenities. I’ll return tomorrow with the tuner—Hellier. He’s Swiss and a stickler for exactness.”

She smiled. “Excellent.”

She fell in beside him as they walked back toward the hall. What she’d learned about him from Ernestine replayed in her mind. They reached the hall, and she halted in its center and, when he paused beside her, swung to face him and raised her eyes to his. “I haven’t yet thanked you for agreeing to my request, and I wanted to assure you that I do most sincerely appreciate your willingness to support my scheme and lend your talents and, indeed, your imprimatur to what I hope you will henceforth regard as our musical evenings.”

His lips twitched slightly, and he gave an acknowledging dip of his head.

She drew a suddenly tight breath and ventured, “I only very recently learned that you might have real cause to eschew the ton—certainly to avoid playing at events in the manner I’ve proposed—which only increases my indebtedness to you for being willing to overcome your understandable reticence and lend your support to my scheme.”

The instant she’d alluded to his past, he’d lowered his eyes; now, he raised them and met her gaze. “Thank you.” His eyes narrowed faintly as they searched hers, his gaze significantly more penetrating than it normally appeared. “As I suspect you’ve already guessed, I abhor the ton’s over-avid attention.” His lips curved in a smile that held a definite edge. “I therefore have every intention of hiding behind your skirts—I give you fair warning, I will rely on you to act as guard in keeping the importuning hostesses, the matchmaking mamas, and their swooning daughters at bay.”

She managed to keep her smile in place and incline her head in easy acceptance—as if he hadn’t meant every word.

His gaze still locked with hers, he straightened. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, he tipped her a salute and strode for the door, where Hettie stood waiting to hand him his hat and see him out.

Stacie stood in her front hall and watched him go, watched the door close behind him while she replayed what he’d said—not just the words that had fallen from his lips but also what his eyes, his expression, had said.

He hadn’t been joking, not at all.

She frowned, not entirely certain how she felt about that. On the one hand, now that she’d manipulated him into performing for the ton again, even if, at the time, she hadn’t known of his earlier difficulty, it could be argued—he could argue—that she owed him that degree of social protection. However…the damned man was more than capable of taking care of himself. She’d seen him react to others he wished to keep at a distance—admittedly by erecting a wall of reserve, yet still, she’d never seen him at a loss or even seriously challenged.

Her eyes, fixed unseeing on the closed door, narrowed. She rather suspected she’d just been warned. He would, if pressed, hide behind her—but she was convinced his motive wouldn’t be self-preservation but, far more likely, a wish to discombobulate her.