He’d been annoyed by her conspiring with his mother to gain this meeting, but the irritation was fading. If she’d tried to contact him directly, he wouldn’t have agreed to see her; perhaps he should be thankful she hadn’t thought to approach him through Rand or Ryder. And she’d confounded him with her request—an appeal to his better self that was shockingly well-aimed.
Her argument regarding local musicians was logical, well-based, and struck a chord with him, yet he was equally drawn by her physical attributes and by her determination to place her argument before him and attempt to lure him into breaking his self-imposed rule of playing only for himself or for scholarly purposes.
Yet his suspicions remained; that she was unmarried, attractive, of his own social class, and had approached him through his mother signaled that this was a matchmaking attempt, albeit one of significantly greater subtlety than any previous tilt at him.
He was perfectly aware that he ranked very highly as an eligible parti—yet surely, so must she.
She wasn’t that young; from her assured behavior, he judged she was at least twenty-five years old. So why wasn’t she married?
If they’d been alone, he would have asked her—to confound her as much as to hear what she would say. Yet if she was avoiding marriage, then presumably she harbored no matrimonial intentions toward him; indeed, she’d given no sign of trying to lure him in that way, which suggested that her quest to help local musicians was her true purpose in confronting him.
He had no intention of agreeing to her request, yet he didn’t want to refuse her outright—not before learning more about her scheme. The prospect might prove to be as
intriguing as she was, and Lord knew, he was bored.
Jaded and bored.
Even though he hadn’t been looking for diversion, Lady Eustacia—Stacie—had given him something novel to think about.
He held her gaze and coolly stated, “I acknowledge the validity of the points you’ve made. I’ll consider your proposal and inform you of my decision in due course.”
Would she argue and try to press him?
She didn’t shift her eyes from his; behind the blue of hers, he saw calculation—an assessing consideration she didn’t try to hide.
Then, to his considerable surprise, her lashes veiled her eyes, and she inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord.”
Stacie returned her gaze to his face. “The musicians of London and I will await your decision in the hope that you will see your way to lending your support in an arena and in a way only a nobleman of your particular talents can.”
With that parting shot, she forced herself to turn to his mother and, gracefully, take her leave. While uttering the customary phrases, she swiftly reviewed the short meeting. Unless she’d misread him, Albury’s response had been a test of sorts; exactly what he’d been angling to determine, she didn’t know, but she’d got the clear impression that he’d expected her to argue further—so she’d done the opposite.
With him, she was reduced to operating on instinct; she hadn’t been able to get any clear indication of his thoughts so had been forced to forsake logic and fall back on her innate abilities.
He might not have agreed to her proposal, but he hadn’t refused yet; at the very least, she would get another chance to persuade him to her cause.
A cause that, sadly, would go nowhere without his active involvement. His and only his; his agreement to perform was crucial to her success, to her achieving the goal she’d set herself. Consequently, in pursuit of his agreement, she was willing to play a long game. What she’d seen and learned of him in this meeting had confirmed that persuading him to perform at her musical evenings would require unwavering persistence and commitment to her goal. Luckily, she’d been born with the former, and the latter had grown to an unshakeable resolve.
At the last, she turned to him and offered her hand. “Lord Albury.”
He clasped her fingers, and his golden gaze trapped hers. For a second, he hesitated, then said, “If I’m to call you Stacie, then perhaps you should call me Frederick.”
Those were close to the last words she’d expected him to utter; they distracted her from suppressing her awareness of him—from steeling her senses against his physical impact—and her fingers quivered beneath his before she ruthlessly hauled her mind back to its task. Stilling her fingers, too wary to take her eyes from his, she inclined her head. “Frederick, then. Until next we meet.”
A slight lift to one eyebrow signaled that he’d heard her unstated challenge, then he inclined his head and released her hand.
With her heart unexpectedly thudding, she flashed the marchioness and her companion a grateful smile, then turned and walked to the door. A footman opened it, and sufficiently satisfied with her first tilt at Albury—Frederick—with her head high, she sailed through and found the butler waiting to see her out.
Frederick watched the door close behind Stacie Cavanaugh and owned himself puzzled—by her behavior and by his.
Until next we meet. Obviously, he would be seeing her again—and most likely, without his mother in attendance.
Speaking of whom…
He turned his head and directed a pointed look at his parent. When all she did was blink at him, he arched his brows in patent longsuffering, then with a nod to her and Emily, made for the door.
To his no doubt abiding distraction, he was actually looking forward to crossing paths with Lady Eustacia—Stacie—again.
When the door closed behind Frederick, the marchioness turned and exchanged an intrigued look with Emily. “Well!” the marchioness declared. “That went a great deal better than I’d expected.”