Page 22 of Miss Devon’s Choice

He approached, quietly. She ought to have seen him coming. Ought to have sensed him and lifted her head, at least. But her eyes were closed and her mind must’ve been well-wrapped in whatever had caused her sorrow.

Christian halted next to the instrument. If he spoke suddenly, he might startle her. If he cleared his throat, the same.

He went to her side, hesitant, unsure of what her reaction might be to him. He dropped to one knee at a respectful distance. His height, he had been told, was daunting to many.

He waited.

Her stumbling fingers slowed on the keys, her eyes blinked open. There were tears in them. She rotated deliberately on the bench until she faced him. Her slow awareness to his presence, her silent acknowledgement, gave them several moments to consider one another.

Rebecca’s throat tightened with a swallow, then she spoke. “I’m not a very good musician.”

Those were not the words he expected, but he did no more than raise his eyebrows.

“However, I’m not usually this terrible,” she added, her voice soft in the empty room. One corner of her mouth twitched upward but fell again. He’d suspected she had a sense of humor from their interaction that morning. That she would try to smile when her distress was obvious also showed a measure of bravery he hadn’t expected.

Christian considered her carefully and took in her defeated posture. “May I?” he asked, raising a hand to gesture to the instrument.

That surprised her, given the way her eyebrows raised. “You play?”

“Passably,” he said, standing to his full height. She moved to the other side of the music bench, expecting him to sit next to her. He hesitated. He wasn’t a small man. And he couldn’t recall ever sitting in such close proximity to a woman to whom he was unrelated.

Rebecca’s eyes still shone with tears. He couldn’t think of her as Miss Devon. Not in this moment, when everything about her posture and expression spoke of hurt and need. Miss Devon was his scheming future wife. Sitting before him now was a young woman in distress.

He sat next to her, cautiously, their shoulders brushing against each other. He looked at the music in front of her, already familiar with the tune she’d been attempting, and put his hands on the keys.

Christian preferred the violin. A violin could sing, after all, whereas a pianoforte had to be pressed into service, each note struck by hammer instead of coaxed into being by the stroke of a bow.

But he could play. And he did. A bright melody, sharply contrasting the mood of the woman next to him. It was a song meant for dancing. As his fingers raced across the keys, conjuring memories of ballrooms and laughter, the woman next to him leaned slightly forward, her eyes on his fingers instead of the music. He made it to the end of the page and finished playing with a flourish, rather than continuing the whole piece, then lowered his hands to his lap.

Rebecca let out a breath, then slowly raised her liquid-chocolate eyes up to meet his. He maintained what he hoped was a neutral expression, giving nothing away. In truth, as he’d played, his heart had raced with the music. And perhaps with some measure of anxiety from her rapt attention.

He rubbed his open palms against the top of his thighs.

“That was more than passable,” she said, tilting her head to one side. A loose curl fell over her ear, brushing against her neck. Her tears were gone. The only evidence left of them was the slight redness around her eyes. “Thank you.”

He nodded and made ready to stand.

A delicate hand on his arm stopped him quite effectively. Her long, slim fingers didn’t move even after he froze.

“My lord,” she said, her voice soft. “I know nothing about you, yet we are to wed.”

Christian said nothing. Theirs was a business arrangement, after all. His momentary kindness, reaching out to a person whose pain he recognized, would’ve been bestowed on another just as easily. At least, he insisted to himself his willingness to approach Rebecca—Miss Devon—had little to do with their relationship.

“I would like—that is, I hope we can take this time to learn more about one another.”

“To what end?” he asked, ignoring the flicker of interest he felt at her words. He studied her, taking in her earnest expression as much as the gentle curve of her cheeks, and the handful of freckles barely perceptible on either side of her pert nose. “We marry either way.”

The hand on his arm stiffened, then withdrew. “Yes, of course.” She folded her hands in her lap. “But I hope to at least know a little about my future husband before I say my vows. Wouldn’t you like to know more about me?” Her brow wrinkled, her eyes searching his.

As he had alternatively considered and fought against the idea, he had no ready answer. Coming to know her better would not change the end result of their engagement. They would wed. Papers had already been signed, his grandfather approved the match, and all of society knew of the betrothal thanks to her gossiping London friends.

His grandfather made it plain that Christian had only found a bride due to his title and inherited wealth. What woman would have him for any other reason? It was his preference, truly, to stay away from emotional attachments.

Her smile appeared as he considered her, the expression tinted with a measure of disappointment. But when she spoke, her words were almost playful. “You should know I will not give up the idea. Not easily, at least. I have made up my mind, in fact. By the end of this house party, I will know all about you.”

He drew back, narrowing his eyes at her. “I have learned one thing about you already, Miss Devon. You are presumptuous.”

Rather than blush, or apologize, or raise her chin haughtily as a true society miss might, her smile grew larger. “Yes, I suppose I am. But I have my reasons, my lord.”